


Long Live the King

by DefiantGuardian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Child Abandonment, F/M, Family, Goblin Royalty, Good Slytherins, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Hermione Granger & Daphne Greengrass Friendship, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Misguided Albus Dumbledore, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Original Character(s), POV Multiple, Past Child Abuse, Politics, Prophecy, Romance, Soul Bond, Wizarding Royalty (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:50:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 56,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefiantGuardian/pseuds/DefiantGuardian
Summary: Two prophecies are spoken: One to Albus Dumbledore, and the other to King Ragnarok, the King of Goblins. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are joined by Prince Nicholas in being the Chosen Ones who have the power to defeat the Dark Lord, Voldemort. Havoc will be wrought upon those who feed off the fruits of corruption in Magical Britain . . . but the war for peace demands sacrifice.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hiya, guys. So, you should probably know I'm pretty new to the whole AO3 thing, but with all the crap going down at FF.net right now, I thought it best to quit dilly-dallying and begin posting here. You'll find a Long Live the King story over there under the same pen-name, but upon comparison, you will - hopefully - find my writing has come a long way, as has the plot (seeing as I had only managed seven chapters before the horrendous 'block' ate away at my motivation to continue). My wish, as I begin this journey with all of you, is to give you an adventure which pulls at your heartstrings, plays you like an instrument by giving you everything you never even knew you needed in one chapter, only to rip it away in another . . .  
> Or perhaps I'll give you a magical fairytale, I haven't quite decided yet. Nevertheless, I wish you luck.  
> -Defiant.

“There are good people who are dealt a bad hand by fate, and bad people who live long, comfortable, privileged lives. A small twist of fate can save or end a life; random chance is a permanent powerful player in each of our lives, and in human history as well." 

_\- Jeff Greenfield._

 

**PROLOGUE**

** 12 February 1979 **

There were times – admittedly many times – when King Ragnarok, the Ruler of the Goblin Realm, was not pleased with the job that had been ordained to him. Reading over the day’s workings as he sat behind his great wooden desk, he realized how this may be one of those times.

Weary black eyes hovered over the words on the parchment in front of him; Universal Brooms Ltd. had evidently incurred countless heavy losses in the past few years that had now finally caught up with the once-popular company. Though they had attempted to push out several above-average brooms, the company was simply not good enough competition against the relatively new Nimbus Racing Broom Company.

John Terkweed (Head Representative for Universal Brooms) had declared the company’s intent to file for bankruptcy a week ago, explaining that the debts owed to Gringotts were far too heavy and vast for there to be any chance of recovery. The owners had arrived today for their meeting to finalise the details of the bankruptcy, and tempers had run hot between the joint-partners – apparently one had begged the other to sell the company years ago, but the other had refused to listen because he believed that they still had a chance. Both men had finally parted Gringotts, and perhaps each other, about two hours later, covered in the bruises they had gifted one another.

Now, Ragnarok was left to add the final signature on the Order of Restriction that would be placed upon both owners, giving Gringotts the rights to all assets belonging to them – so that they may be sold or auctioned – in order to begin the repayment of their debts. Lifting his quill, Ragnarok dipped it into his pot of ink. With a few practiced scratches on the neat line at the bottom of the parchment, the Order was fully authorised. Tomorrow, Gringotts Executives would be sent to all properties that had once belonged to Universal Brooms to collect and handle their possessions. It was as Ragnarok pored himself another glass of fine Elf-made wine that he wondered whether it was blind faith or plain arrogance that led to the end of Universal Broom Limited.

He swung his head back and took a large swig of the blood-red liquid, allowing the sweet, summery taste to fill his mouth, and he closed his eyes, wishing with all his soul that the drink was something far stronger. But alas, King Ragnarok could not be seen inebriated – or indeed weakened in any way, shape or form – lest those who already believed he was too broken to rule have any evidence to prove their claims. 

While his eyes remained closed, Ragnarok noticed a soft glow to the left of his fastened eyelids. He ignored the light for a little bit, not finding anything about it to be alarming, but when it had begun to grow, brighter and brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter and hotter, he threw his eyes wide open. 

Ragnarok searched for the source of the brightness and found it was coming from the bottom drawer on the left side of his desk. His alarm increased at this – as this particular drawer had been sparsely used, even while his father had reigned the kingdom – and that may have been why he had rushed to pull the drawer open only to remember when it was too late that it had been his only shield from getting hit with the full extent of the light.

Thankfully, Ragnarok had not been blinded by his foolishness. He had shielded his eyes with his hands and waited until a few notes later when the glow had softened. Although it was still uncomfortable, Ragnarok lowered his hands and unclenched his eyes, finally able to view the soft pulsating glow coming from within a thick old tome that laid on the polished wood. 

The last time Ragnarok had seen this particular tome, he had been twenty years younger, and – on a day as dull as any of his others – his curiosity had gotten the better of him. At the time, the book had been mere tatters, practically falling apart in his hands, and it had lost his interest very quickly. Now though . . . now its cover was coloured a rich dark chocolate, the golden title shimmering like a fresh Galleon straight out of the Gringotts furnaces.

He read the Latin clearly in his mind: _‘Annales Regum et Reginarum Maleficus.’_   And the lavish amount of lessons in the various languages of the world were not necessary as there was no Goblin who ever called himself King that did not know what this book was.

Bending down, Ragnarok gripped the tome, wincing slightly at the heat it encased. Ignoring this, he lifted it, struggling due to its great weight, and placed it gently on the table – above the documents that now laid long forgotten – where it made a muffled _thud_ against the wood. The king stared at the cover, taking deep breaths to calm himself. _How many centuries has it been? Four? – Five?_ Ragnarok did not know, but what he _did_ know was that the book’s activity only meant one thing . . . and the very thought of it overwhelmed him.

He steadied himself, furrowing his thick, furry eyebrows. His hands clutched at the pages and he pulled open the thick tome to the end, where brand new parchment shone with a golden gleam that throbbed steadily, the sight filling the king with hope; as where the radiance reminded him very much of the bright star he always gazed at through the window in his bedchamber, the pulsating glow did not cease . . . two beats, and pause, two beats, and pause, two beats, and pause, and on and on it went – a beat that carried the song of new life, familiar only to those who have a heart.

Neatly scripted golden ink appeared on the blank page, and Ragnarok hungrily read through it like he was afraid it would disappear as instantly as it materialised. 

_12_ _ th  _ _February 1979._

_Anna Smith neè West has been delivered of a son._

_Prince Nicholas of House Westerly, Heir Apparent of Avalon, is given all worldly rights to the throne through blood and magic._

 

Just as he had been reading the passage, a few more words faded into existence; this time the ink was as black as the darkest of ravens, and no shine accompanied them.

 

_Anna Smith neè West has succumbed to infection and severe bleeding._

_May she rest in peace._

 

“Your Majesty?”

Ragnarok glanced up from the page to the new arrival within his office. Lord Rockstooth, the Royal Advisor and also the Head of Gringotts, stood just inside the double doors he had entered through, appearing out of breath. His black overcoat and sword belt had become disordered from his obvious run, but his slanted black eyes looked only relieved at the sight of the king. “Rockstooth,” Ragnarok acknowledged neutrally. “Is there a problem?”

“The wards triggered, Your Grace,” said Rockstooth, waddling closer to the king, all the while glancing around searchingly, his hand firmly grasping the hilt of his sword. “They indicated a foreign object that could cause you harm.”

“I assure you,” Ragnarok growled, “the only danger here is my incense at your unwavering belief that I cannot protect myself.”

At one time, maybe a few decades ago, the glare he threw at Rockstooth would have made the smaller goblin quiver in his little polished shoes. At is was, Rockstooth had now served under him for far too long and had grown immune to his wrath. 

“With respect, Your Grace,” Rockstooth said strictly, “As I am sure you are aware, the procedures surrounding your security are compulsory and would be in place, regardless of your ability in combat.”

He narrowed his eyes, responding with words as sharp as daggers, “With respect, Lord Rockstooth, these security measures did naught for the rest of my family.”

“Maybe not,” Rockstooth supposed, without missing a beat, “but you are still obliged to live under them.”

Ragnarok glared at his Advisor for a moment longer before he dropped his head, releasing a long-suffering sigh, and finally nodding in acceptance.

A few moments of silence followed, and Rockstooth seized the opportunity to ask the king about the wards: “Do you know what may have caused the trigger, Your Grace?”

Ragnarok considered if he should tell Rockstooth but eventually decided that if anyone should know, it should be the Royal Advisor. After all, both Ragnarok and Rockstooth were two of only three in the world who knew of the prophecy. "Seeing as the protections placed upon my chambers and office are renewed to newer and more advanced ones every month, the wards may not have been able to identify this," he pointedly stared at the opened book still on his desk in front of him, "as anything other than foreign, due to its age." 

Rockstooth looked at the book disbelievingly. “The wards triggered because of some old book?” He looked utterly offended at the very notion. “What is it?”

“This is an ancient written archive of wizarding kings and queens of this country,” said Ragnarok. “And the wards triggered, not because of the book itself, but because of the charms placed upon it.”

Disgust marred the younger goblin’s face as he ferociously snarled at the volume like it had insulted his ancestors. “Why do we have a book belonging to wizards in our possession?”

“Because King Warnock had vowed to protect it with his life when the last Queen of Avalon – Queen Eleanora – had placed it in his care,” Ragnarok answered. “Her children were barren of magic, disabling them from having any legitimate claim to the throne, so, with her death, goblins were given charge to protect her descendants. You know about the pure-blood wizard opinions of non-magical children born to highborn magical families?”

“It is abhorrent,” said Rockstooth, shaking his head disapprovingly.

"Undeniably," Ragnarok agreed. "The royal prince and princesses had eventually married and all were unable to produce a magical heir – not one of the Queen's grandchildren had any kind of magical ability – and they were all forced to leave the wizarding community to live in the mundane world. When her council began to turn against her, Queen Eleanora feared for her children and grandchildren, so she asked for help from the only ally left to her – King Warnock. She knew the goblins were renowned for our capability in protecting treasure, and she considered her family to be greatest treasures of them all – an opinion we goblins also keep of our own young. Queen Eleanora was certain of our honour and she was sure that if the records were kept with us, handed down generations to generations of our kings, her family would be kept safe until a time came in which a magical heir would be born." 

“There has been no royal heir since King Warnock?” asked Rockstooth in shock. “That must be at least five hundred years, Your Grace!”

“Five hundred years of disaster, I know you will agree,” said Ragnarok. “A civil war between nearly all highborn families who thought themselves noble enough to rule the kingdom directly after Queen Eleanora’s death which resulted in the formation of their Wizengamot. Three Goblin Wars were then fought due to their immense disrespect of our customs, something that would never have occurred with the presence of a figure – a royal – who would have been knowledgeable of our traditions. And now, a Dark Lord has risen. He embodies all of the ideals that belonged to the ancient families who dishonourably drove out Queen Eleanora’s children.”

"Lord Voldemort," Rockstooth scoffed. "If only those stupid wizards in the Ministry of Magic know the hilarity of declaring opposition against him when he has already infiltrated their government, a lot of his most-loyal followers being on the Wizengamot itself. I wonder why they do not question how the Dark Lord is getting all these other followers . . . surely they know that only gold speaks?"

A vicious smile lifted at his lips. Nearly every goblin could name at least thirty Death Eaters from the top of their head, simply from the observations made on their accounts in the past few years. King Ragnarok had ordered them all to keep this information silent; if wizards were too arrogant to even consider the goblins as allies during this war, then they must reap what they sow on their own. "You are right, of course," said Ragnarok. "We follow the gold that which feeds us – it is the simplest nature of all beings in this world – and the people with the most gold, other than our own people, are those within the ancient families of the Wizengamot. The corruption is deep rooted in its system, but I know, with the presence of higher authority that outranks the Wizengamot – such as a monarch – the current war could have been deterred." 

Rockstooth studied Ragnarok carefully. “Is this why you are reading that record? I do not think you should dwell in the past and the what-could-have-been this intensively, Your Grace.”

“I do not read this for the history, my friend,” Ragnarok said as he lifted his head to him. His voice was thick with hopefulness. “This record may very well be our future.”

Rockstooth frowned confusedly. “Sire?”

“Do you remember the prophecy about the Promised Ones?” asked Ragnarok. “The one that was made only a month ago.” He rotated the book and pushed it across the desk, towards Rockstooth who leaned down to read the short entry on the page.

Rockstooth’s head snapped up almost instantly, and he whispered ever so softly, with faith that Ragnarok could just about taste in the air,

_“The Prince . . .”_

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

**Two Years Later **

** 24 ** ** th ** ** November 1981 **

 

The sun dipped low in the west and Ragnarok watched from the balcony of his castle as the town beneath him gradually quieted, settling down for the evening.

Every time he found himself in this position, the king felt resentment rise up in his throat like bile after a bad meal. Each of the small houses that were stacked against each other in the village were simple and small, and they were as close to each other as architecturally possible so that all the space that had been allocated to them by those _damned_ Wizards was used.

_How much longer should we live like dogs?_ Ragnarok asked himself.

The Goblin Nation had tried and tried to protest against their treatment, the greatest of all their protests being the Goblin Rebellion of 1877 where King Grenyx had risen up and made allies of the Werewolves. Two Ministers for Magic had resigned from their positions because of that Rebellion, and the Wizards had almost been brought to their knees. Unfortunately, it was not to be. The Wizengamot had bought off the Werewolves, and the Goblins had been betrayed, and they were all left with thousands dead for nothing but more restrictions placed upon their livelihood.

In the distance, Ragnarok glimpsed the lake between the houses and trees. The sky was darkening, the hues of orange and red had begun to fade, and the colours reflected off the tranquil surface of the water that shimmered like a sheet of beaten copper. _A peaceful ending to a tragic war_ , he serenely observed.

Minister Bagnold had announced the death of Lord Voldemort over the Wizarding Wireless Network, and the previously-declining economy boomed; witches and wizards were emerging from their homes, spilling the gold from their accounts with no care in the world, and the Goblins overjoyed. At the height of the war, everyone had gone into hiding, taking their gold with them, and all work was sparse. Now that Lord Voldemort had been proclaimed dead, there was no more fear, businesses had started up again, and gold flowed freely between the happy populace. Many malicious Goblins – those who did not bother themselves with the vows of confidentiality they had made to the Wizards – would also mention that a number of members from the Wizengamot were also transferring large amounts of gold into Minister Bagnold’s accounts, most likely to buy themselves their acquittals due to involvement with the Dark Lord.

Goblin hands were further full from the necessity to freeze accounts. Although they held great amounts of contempt for Wizardkind, the Goblins still viewed the events that occurred at and around Godric's Hollow as a great tragedy. An innocent child had been stolen of both his mother and father in one night, left as an orphan within only a few moments of destruction. As a result, the Potter accounts were locked – with the exception of the hefty trust fund that the boy's parents had established for him in the event that their deaths did occur – and they would remain that way until Harry Potter was of age to inherit. 

Ragnarok could not deny his admiration for James and Lily Potter who had acknowledged the worst possible outcome and prepared so thoroughly for it. Regrettably, that did not stop others from interfering in the last wishes they had stated clearly in their Last Will and Testament. Gringotts had received correspondence from the Ministry of Magic earlier this afternoon, documents declaring Albus Dumbledore as the main guardian of Harry Potter – even though the Potters had explicitly stated that Dumbledore was the last possible guardian, and one Remus Lupin (the only one that was not either imprisoned, insane, or dead) was higher up on their list of guardians. 

Lawfully, Goblins had no right to intervene with this action; they were only responsible for the protection of such documents, like wills and leases, as well as finances. Above this, they did not usually feel passionate enough about the Wizards' constant misdemeanors or misconduct to do anything. 

One of the biggest families on the Wizengamot – the Black family – had also taken a large hit in the war. Deaths and imprisonments had led to there not being any direct heirs to their properties. Laws surrounding these circumstances stated: _A period of eighteen years must pass, without any present successors who have a legitimate claim to all assets, before they are then given to the Ministry of Magic, to be handled and distributed as seen fit._ This was done so that any child may have enough time to give claim to those properties and also be old enough to inherit. In relation to the Blacks, Ragnarok was aware of three distant relatives who may attempt to claim the large fortune. 

Rockstooth had informed Ragnarok of the worth of the Galleon increasing by two percent in the space of nearly two months. This was the steepest incline the Goblins had seen in over thirty years – a cause for celebration for them as the more the worth increased, the more they would be receiving in commissions.

The town below had been lively today. Ragnarok watched children sprint as fast as they could, waving their small wooden swords around joyously, away from their screaming mothers. The fathers usually stood sternly to the side, but when the children began fighting one another, they usually stepped forward to chide them for their incorrect footwork. _You must pivot when you deliver your stroke_ , one father had told his daughter. _You are small, but if you pivot, your weight will add to the blow._

Ragnarok was challenged to many duels over the week, and he was also asked to witness many of the others. He attended as many of these as he could, observing his duty without a complaint as he required no complaint. Seeing the joy of his people had made him the happiest he had been for some time.

His positive mood did not last for long, however.

Earlier on in the afternoon, the _Annales Regum et Reginarum Maleficus_ had pulsated desperately with a blood red light. Ragnarok had dropped his quill in his alarm and swiftly summoned Rockstooth. Blood red could only mean one thing – a warning; the life of the heir was in mortal danger.

Rockstooth had arrived within two minutes of his summoning, and Ragnarok wasted no time. He pressed his hand against the page which declared the birth of the prince, all the while gripping at Rockstooth with his other hand, and he muttered, “ _Mittenobis,_ ” thus activating the enchantments placed around the book that would instantly transport him and Rockstooth to the Prince Nicholas’ present location.

In less than a flash, they had both arrived and grew horrified and enraged at what they were seeing.

Prince Nicholas – not even three years of age – was left on the floor of a small prison-like room. He was small, very small, and his eyes were clenched shut, his breaths coming out in long-pained wheezes; his black hair was matted across his forehead, and a sheet of cold sweat covered him like a blanket. Ragnarok's eyes raked over the boy's half-naked body which was covered in several large blue and yellowing bruises, shivering violently from the cold November air that drifted through the windows of the lifeless grey room. The prince's bones were visibly poking out of the thin layer of skin that barely protected him from whoever had neglected him so. 

King Ragnarok growled furiously. Humans lacked honour. Humans lacked morals. He knew they were the most despicable creatures in this world. Their egotistical nature had made them believe that they were unbeaten in intelligence, that they had the right to restrain other creatures or keep them as slaves to do their bidding or for their entertainment. They had even gone as far as to fight statuses amongst themselves; the rich against the poor; the white-skinned against the coloured. Humans had the world at their feet, but they kept their views primitive, no different than when they had only been apes thousands of years ago.  

Through all their faults, through all their stupidity, Ragnarok always thought that there was a line – one that not even the humans would cross – but the sight before him at this very moment taught the king that he was wrong to be so optimistic. He still had much to learn.

How could this brutish civilisation be able to build machines and weapons that could reign the fires of hell upon whole cities before they have even created a world free from vile acts against innocent children? This . . . this blatant _hatred_ against a child was the very epitome of everything that repulsed the Goblins.

Ragnarok knelt beside the quivering child – the Prince of the Prophecy – and placed his hand against the boy’s damp forehead. His face burned with the flush of fever, and with the smaller gap between them, Ragnarok could more clearly hear the short, quick gasps that painfully and rigidly swallowed the chilled air around him. The king felt the boy’s magic reaching out for his hand desperately, detecting that he did not wish to cause any harm, begging him to help. Ragnarok snarled, thoroughly disgusted by whoever had done this, and let a flow of his magic run down his arm and into the young prince.

The effect was instant; Nicholas had stopped trembling and his scrunched face relaxed, softening into a peaceful sleep while several of his more pronounced bruises had begun to fade and his pasty skin gained a bit of colour.

Ragnarok reached up to unhook the silver chain that fastened his thick black cloak around his neck. Placing the cloth down on the ground next to the skinny child, Ragnarok tucked one hand under the boy’s neck, and the other beneath his knees, lifting him up and gently placing him on the cloak, wrapping it around him and securing the silver chain around his chest. Ragnarok then lifted Nicholas up again, standing with the boy safely tucked in his arms.

“Who could have done this?” Rockstooth snarled in disgust. “To a child – a _P_ _rince_.”

Ragnarok shook his head. “I do not know.”

“With your permission, Your Grace, I should like to investigate.”

“I give you leave,” Ragnarok approved. “Find out who lives here. We already know that the boy’s mother passed after childbirth, so that leaves his father and extended family as suspects. Approach me when you have found all you can. And make sure you are disguised, Rockstooth. We do not want the Ministry catching wind of this.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Rockstooth. “But the child . . .”

“He will be returning with me,” Ragnarok stated. “Warnock promised security, and I will carry through with his vow. Prince Nicholas will be a Ward of the Goblin Nation.” With that, Ragnarok gave his Advisor a nod and then silently vanished, Prince Nicholas sleeping in his arms.

Goblins did not have many hospitals. Injuries were symbols of pride and honour, and sickness was too much of rarity to bother with establishments dedicated to healing. Despite this, Ragnarok knew about a group of Goblin Healers who were renowned for their absolute knowledge in their profession. They had not only taken it upon themselves to learn the traditional Goblin methods of treatment, but they also learned the Centaur, Elf,  Wizard, and even mundane approaches to healing. This was why Ragnarok felt confident that bringing Prince Nicholas back to the Goblin Lands was the best possible decision he could make. Here, Nicholas would receive the best treatment. 

Ragnarok carried Nicholas through the halls of his castle home, all the way to the empty room next to his own bedchamber. Laying him down on the queen-sized bed, and covering him with the comforter, Ragnarok called upon the Goblin Healers. He urged them all to not leave their patients if it was not a possibility, but still, they arrived within thirty minutes of being called. 

They were befuddled upon arrival, surprised that it was not their king that required their services, but actually a human child. Ragnarok was thankful when they had chosen to stay silent, getting to work on the boy without question.

Hours had passed as the Healers treated Nicholas. Once they were done, Healer Argok – an old friend of King Ragnarok – had approached him quietly. “The boy is stable,” he told him. “He was severely undernourished, dehydrated, and internally wounded.”

“And now?”

“All his injuries have been healed successfully, but there is only so much that can be done about the lack of food and water the boy has had in his life,” Argok said, shaking his head. “I have prescribed potions to help him gain all the nutrients he needs to live healthily, and I do believe they will help him . . .”

“. . . But?” Ragnarok prompted.

Argok sighed tiredly. “It is most likely that the boy has lived like this since birth, so – even though it is very unlikely – there is a chance that the potions will have the opposite effect on him. If he survives –”

“ _When_ he survives,” Ragnarok hurriedly corrected. “Argok, I know you for a rational goblin, but I felt his magic when I reached him, and it was still fighting. He had no hope for rescue, but he still fought. There is strength in him.”

“I cannot deny his strength,” Argok said thoughtfully. “I felt his magic, too. It was steady as any healthy child’s magic, solid and unwavering . . . almost as if there was something anchoring him to this world. But – and I say this with all cold reasoning, Your Grace – we must be aware that even _when_ he survives, the lasting damage to his immune system could hinder him in ways yet to be seen.”

Ragnarok mulled over the Healer’s words interestedly. _Like something was anchoring him to this world . . ._ It may just be a coincidence, but the way those words were spoken reminded him very much of what was foretold about the prince’s future.

Argok left Ragnarok to his musings, leaving him alone with the toddler.

It had been hours and Nicholas was yet to awaken from his deep slumber, though Ragnarok liked it better that way. There was no telling how a human child who had lived in such horrific conditions, surrounded by cruel mundane people, would react to seeing a Goblin. Ragnarok could not even rely on the naïve imagination that normally plagued children; the grey room the prince was found in was void of books, void of toys, and void of anything else that could have suggested the room housed a little boy. Ragnarok could only hope that Nicholas would trust his magical instincts and know that no harm would come to him here.

Deciding to get some work done whilst waiting for either Nicholas to wake, or for Rockstooth to return, Ragnarok commanded some passing elves to fetch all the documents that needed his attention. They obliged, bringing him the whole stack that was generally piled atop his desk, and he conjured himself a desk facing Nicholas’ bed so he could both work and keep an eye on the boy.

He read through the heap of parchments thoroughly, signing those he was sure about, and waiting for Rockstooth’s council for others. The pile gradually decreased in size until, eventually, there were none left.

By then, Ragnarok turned his eyes to the balcony and noticed the sun beginning to set. He had unlocked the latch that kept the doors closed, and stepped outside. There he had stood, praying for his people to always be as happy as they are now, until the sun dipped below the horizon; the mauve deepened, and in moments, the brightest and biggest star had bowed, giving way to a thousand others.

Hearing some rustling behind him, Ragnarok looked over his shoulder and watched Nicholas tossing under the heavy sheets once again. He had been doing this constantly for the last hour or so, causing Ragnarok to suspect that he was probably having a nightmare. The king briefly wondered whether he should wake him, but Argok had instructed him to give Nicholas as much rest as possible. This echoed in his mind as he left the boy alone to fight his demons.

Fifteen minutes had passed before Nicholas had finally settled down.

King Ragnarok frowned, moving back inside the room, closing the doors to the balcony behind him. He approached the edge of the bed, lifting his right hand and levitating the chair behind his desk towards him, and then sitting himself down. Narrowing his beady eyes in contemplation, Ragnarok found it astonishing how someone so small, so fragile, could have such a great destiny ahead of him.

Years ago, a Goblin Seer had begged for an audience with King Ragnarok. Everyone knew that the woman was a creature of absolute lunacy (ironically only making sense when she told prophecy) and he had wondered whether anyone would blame him for being the first Goblin King to turn someone away from the chance to speak, but he had been urged to not do so by Rockstooth – ever the voice of reason – who said that the Seer was claiming the matter was of great importance.

_The greatest importance_ , Ragnarok thought idly. The Seer – Rynle – entered the room in a rush, carrying a white orb with a swirling blue cloud inside. She handed it to him, and he had taken it with weary hands, and there his hope had begun.

 

_“From the rage of war,_

_The Prince, the Lioness, and the Saviour arise as the champions over darkness,_

_They shall unite those isolated,_

_They shall command those lost,_

_And they shall lift Albion from the ashes of their sorrows._

_The Lioness will be sovereign in magic,_

_And she shall stand beside the Prince who will be King of Wizards._

_Two sides of the same coin,_

_Their souls bound by fate,_

_They will be the very power of the Saviour marked as the Dark Lord’s equal,_

_Born in the fires of conflict,_

_The champions are promised._

_The age of unity for all creatures looms._

_The Age of Albion is coming._

_The Age of Albion is coming . . .”_

Ragnarok had intently listened to the prophecy, placing it in the back of his mind until he had first read the declaration of the Prince’s birth. He had realised only then that the prophecy had some true substance. Rynle’s Prophecy was further brought into relevance when Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived – survived the Dark Lord’s Killing Curse with only a scar on his forehead as his mark. That meant two figures out of the three in the prophecy had been revealed, and Ragnarok could no longer overlook it.

He focused his eyes back on Prince Nicholas. Serenity was plastered across his face as he slept, his chest rising and falling rhythmically in accordance with his slow, shallow breaths. _One day_ , Ragnarok thought, astonished, _he will be King of Avalon._

_Knock, knock._

The door that led into the bedchamber creaked open slightly, and Rockstooth peeked his head in through the crack. “May I come in, Your Grace?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ragnarok, leaning back in his chair. “Have you completed your investigation?”

Rockstooth strolled into the room, gently shutting the door. “I have indeed,” he said gravely. He faced his king. “The neglect came from the boy’s father as he is the only other inhabitant of the house. His financial status does not seem to be very weak, but his physical condition is appalling – he was most definitely inebriated when he answered the door for me, and he did not appear worried so I doubt he even knew about his child’s absence. When I read through his thoughts and memories, I found that this was not the first time he abused Prince Nicholas. The man seemed to despise the prince for being left to him after the death of the mother.”

“I see,” Ragnarok said slowly. “The mother was the last of the line before his birth, leaving no one to look after him except the paternal side of his family.”

“The father’s family is not capable, Your Grace,” Rockstooth informed. “Both grandparents are incapacitated, and under government care, while the father himself has proven to be unqualified.”

Ragnarok considered this information, knitting his hands together, and staring contemplatively at the slumbering Nicholas. The boy had no one who could truly care for him in his immediate family. “Are there any relatives from his mother’s extended family who could take him?”

“No,” Rockstooth replied.

Ragnarok nodded. “Then, I have another job for you.”

Rockstooth stood a bit taller. “Anything, Your Grace.”

“Go back to that house tomorrow morning,” he instructed. “Force the father to sign over guardianship rights to me by whatever means, and make sure that he or the grandparents or anyone else who might have known about the prince do not remember anything about his existence.”

Rockstooth gaped. “Y-Your Grace.” He wavered. “Are you quite sure?”

_Well_ , Ragnarok thought, _while keeping the prince here guarantees a very . . . uncertain future for him, it would still be better than handing the boy over to someone who may very well be just as terrible as his father._ “What would _you_ suggest I do, Rockstooth?”

“Give him to the Ministry of Magic,” he answered instantly.

“And feed him to the wolves?” Ragnarok snorted. “I think not. You and I both know how he would be oppressed in the wizarding world.”

“But surely keeping him here would be just as cruel.”

“Keeping him here would ensure he is not locked away to rot in some high lord wizard’s dungeons –”

“They would not –”

Ragnarok raised his hand to halt Rockstooth’s words. “They would. You need to understand what he means, Rockstooth. He will have the power to destroy everything they had ever built. And they will fear him for that. They will keep him shackled to prevent it from ever happening. By keeping him here, however, I can ensure he receives a proper formal education, where he will not only be knowledgeable in the ways of Wizards, but also Goblins and Elves and Centaurs, and every other creature with the intelligence for speech. Here, Prince Nicholas will be raised to be a cultured wizard. He will not be ignorant of the ways of others. And, above all else, he will be safe from those who would plot to harm him. The boy is what we have always needed, Rockstooth. He could be our way to freedom.”

“Is this how we war now, Your Grace?” Rockstooth asked angrily. “No Goblin will ever happily accept the scraps of freedom from the palm of a wizard, even if he _is_ one we manipulated. We will want to fight – to _truly_ fight – for our rights.”

“We _have_ fought, you fool!” the king yelled, greatly infuriated by the smaller goblin’s insinuation. “And all the hours of my childhood spent in those foul history lessons still have not helped me memorise exactly how many times we had lost. I doubt anyone could! How many of our uprisings went up in flames, Rockstooth? Tell me!” He pounded his hand onto his desk, furious. The stinging pain from the force of the contact crept up his arm like grinding bones. “How many battles have we fought against the wizards, and from all those wars, how many victories have we had? How many of my people have bled, have died, for a cause that was damned from the very beginning?”

His advisor stayed silent.

“Imagine we rose in rebellion at this very moment,” Ragnarok went on, all gritted teeth and clenched fists, “with the wizards only just starting to recover from their civil war, we still do not know if we could win. What we _do_ know, though, is that Rynle’s Prophecy promised us a Prince. And now we have Prince Nicholas here. We also know she promised us another war. And that war . . . that war will either be our damnation, or the beginning of an era of whole unification and equality for all of us. This is the only fight that matters, do you not see?”

“Do _you_ not see that putting your faith in the promises of a prophecy is unwise?” Rockstooth returned.

“Perhaps it is,” he admitted, “but I will not turn my back on him. The Prince’s presence, the presence of a monarch in the wizarding world, has the possibility to create too large a difference to ignore. Look at him, Rockstooth.”

They both turned their eyes to the boy and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“On my honour, I will not exploit him as a mere pawn in my own game of politics,” Ragnarok swore. “He will be raised to be of sound mind regarding all issues, and once he has been crowned, he will come to make his own decisions concerning those issues.”

“And if he decides that those issues aren’t issues at all?”

“Then I would have failed. We must try though, Rockstooth. We must try for every one of us that have died trying to gain our true freedom.”

Rockstooth bared his piercing teeth in frustration. “Do you really believe yourself to be capable of raising a human child? Humans are fragile, Your Grace. Prince Nicholas may be not able to handle the ways of Goblins.”

It was true enough, Ragnarok considered. Human children seemed to require a gentle approach in nurturing – not something they could receive from Goblins who were typically taught to duel from their fourth year of birth. 

“You may be right,” he finally admitted. “Perhaps Lord Commander Desmond would be willing to help us in our endeavour.”

“Desmond?” asked Rockstooth. “From the Druid Union?”

Ragnarok nodded.

The Druid Union was renowned as an ancient and exclusive magical organisation whose members were seen as the mediators and law-enforcers of the magical world. Ragnarok admired the organisation as they were among the first to allow creatures other than humans, including Goblins, into their esteemed halls – to be treated as equals.

Lord Commander Desmond – the elected leader of the Druid Union – was admired amongst the Goblins for being one of the few wizards in the world that acknowledged their strengths fully, and used those strengths to better their status in the world. Ragnarok had met with him many times over the years and knew him to be grounded and amiable.

“Under the Druid Union,” Ragnarok considered out loud, “I am sure Prince Nicholas will be able to proceed and learn at a lesser pace than our kind.”

“There is no guarantee that Lord Commander Desmond would accept to take on the prince,” Rockstooth reasoned out.

“True enough,” he acknowledged. “It is still important, though, that the Druid Union is, at least, aware of the prince’s existence. They will be essential if we hope for a smooth succession.”

“And if the Lord Commander agrees? You must know that a passing tutor will not be able to teach the boy everything he needs to learn to be king.”

Ragnarok agreed with his Advisor, “The rest I will teach him under this very roof. I am a king, and I believe myself fully capable of educating another.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Rockstooth’s expression then softened ever so slightly. “But are you capable of having another child under your roof again, after so long?”

His soft-spoken words struck Ragnarok. Ten years ago, almost to the day, the king had lost his lifemate and children. An accident within Gringotts had torn his companion and his dear daughters from him in a single, terrible, blazing moment of fire. Ragnarok had grieved for months, leaving the kingdom to be run by Rockstooth who had routinely tried to get him back to his feet, all the while the king believed that this hurt, this sorrow that throbbed with every beat of his heart in the absence of those he loved most in this world, would never end.

Ragnarok took a deep breath, and let it blow out, leaning forward and placing a hand on the side of the boy’s face. Nicholas released a small sigh and unconsciously leaned into the touch. He allowed a small smile to pass his face, finally knowing the answer to Rockstooth’s question.

“I have mourned, and I will never forget my beloveds,” he said gently. “I do not deny the thought of it filling me with fear, but I want to raise him. His father failed him. Humans failed him. I will not fail him.”

Nicholas stirred, Ragnarok's gravelly voice disturbing him from his sleep. He moaned in displeasure, yawning from his small pink lips, blinking several times, and then drowsily opening his eyes to reveal bright silver eyes . . . 

Silver eyes that widened upon focusing on the two Goblins in the room. Ragnarok felt the two-year-old’s magic flare in fear just as Nicholas attempted to jerk away from the hand that was still clutching the side of his face. Ragnarok pulled his hand back slowly, lifting both in front of him to show him that he meant no harm.

The gesture seemed to work; Nicholas' magic composed itself and retreated. Outwardly, Nicholas calmed from his silent fright and relaxed his rigid body. Widened eyes narrowed back to a normal stare, and he simply remained laying on the large bed and curiously staring at the creatures in the room with him, cocking his head to the side as if he was intrigued by the sight. 

For a few moments, they all remained silent. Ragnarok lowered his hands, sadly noticing how Nicholas focused at the steady movement as if he was scared, but the boy composed himself soon enough. He lifted one of his thumbs into his mouth, beginning to suck on it while raising his other arm, aiming his index finger at Ragnarok’s pointed ears.

“Big,” he giggled.

Rockstooth snorted and Ragnarok was pleased. Nicholas did not seem to fear their appearance, rather he was amused by it, and this was all he could ask for.

Both Goblins watched closely as the small boy peeled the covers from his body, wearing only a pair of white pants underneath, and advanced towards Ragnarok who had begun to make a silent oath to himself as he reached out and clutched the giggling boy’s hand that had been coming dangerously close to pinching his long, hooked nose.

_Nicholas will not enter Wizarding Britain without the proper knowledge and strength he needs to rule it,_

_So Mote It Be_

 

**-o0o0o0o- **

 

** Eight Years Later, **

** 12 February 1990.  **

 

The sound of swords clanging against each other filled the air.

“To your left!”

An eleven-year-old Prince Nicholas faced his tutor, the Lord Commander Desmond, and blocked a blow that had been heading to the left of his abdomen. He groaned as his sword – a small and nimble blade forged to be well balanced for his age – parried the sword of the older man.

“Very good, Your Highness,” Edwin Desmond smirked.

The Lord Commander was a man near forty years, tall and sturdily made. His features were sharp, brown eyes mirthful, with a newly clean-shaven face, and short chestnut brown hair where some few strands of grey were beginning to lighten the colour. He normally styled it so it slicked back, but it had become disheveled during the fight, falling into his eyes.

Nicholas panted from over-exertion, a layer of sweat coating his light skin, but through the exhaustion, he swelled with pride from the praise given to him by the renowned swordsman.

Edwin paused for a few moments to give Nicholas a chance to catch his breath. He did not wait for long, though, as he rushed forward again. Nicholas snapped his attention to him and swiftly raised his weapon to meet the crashing of Edwin’s broad blade. From the block, Edwin quickly retreated slightly, only to return with several successive blows that Nicholas was forced to guard himself against.

Years of being under Edwin Desmond’s tutelage taught Nicholas that the best way to learn any king of combat was through example and practice. And even though learning this way was tough, and Edwin was far from a gentle instructor, Nicholas had to admit that Edwin had a style to his training that was superior to all the other swordsmen who taught him.

Nicholas dodged the upward swing of his mentor by twisting himself away from its blow as the sword barely missed him. He then turned back to the older wizard and decided to take the chance to begin his own assault.

Long ago, Nicholas was told his strength lied in his agility, the nimbleness of his feet allowing him to move rapidly whilst avoiding any kind of attack which could harm him. He had worked out that his speed could also be used in an offensive manner if he had the right opening to attack.

Darting at Edwin, Nicholas parried several more swipes of his sword. The ringing of steel against steel became louder as the blows increased in strength from the close-combat that the two were engaged in. Biding his time, Nicholas began to see a pattern in Edwin’s fighting.

Upon observing Edwin’s sword heading towards the side of his arm, Nicholas finally saw his opening. Quick as a whip, Nicholas ducked under the swing of Edwin’s blade and took two steps to shift behind the older man. He then swiftly kicked the back of Edwin’s knee so he was forced to kneel. Once his mentor was downed, Nicholas pressed the point of his sword on the back of Edwin’s neck.

“Yield,” Nicholas commanded.

There was a grin in his voice as Edwin replied between a breath, “I yield – I yield.”

Nicholas lowered his blade instantly, watching as Edwin stood and stashed his blade away in its sheath, found on the wide belt with a silver buckle around his hips, the metal making a sharp _hisssss_ as it lowered into its casing. His armour was a steel plate of silver, inlaid with the sigil of the Druid Union – a sprawled phoenix with a sword rising from between its wings – upon his chest.

“You have improved immensely, Nicholas,” Edwin praised happily.

Nicholas smiled. “Thank you, Edwin.”

He watched as Edwin went over to pick up their things to the side of the field they had chosen to battle in, all the while unhooking his armour and packing it away. “I was told the king wants to see you after this session was complete,” said Edwin. “Go on and clean up before presenting yourself.”

Nicholas furrowed his dark brows, confused. He turned his head and eyed the clock tower in the village a few leagues away. “But there is still an hour left of this session.”

“I’m glad that you’re so eager to learn, but it _is_ your birthday today,” Edwin told him. “You need to seize it, Nicholas, you won’t always be eleven. Which reminds me –” He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small box, wandlessly enlarging it. “My dear wife and I wanted you to have this.”

Nicholas grinned excitedly, laying down his sword before accepting the present. “May I open it?”

“Of course!” Edwin laughed. “Else I’m sure Jane will commit regicide.”

The prince ripped through the layers of wrapping paper until he had his hands on the actual thin box. He pulled the lid off and saw that he was given a book: the first volume of the _World’s Most Renowned Piano Pieces_. Nicholas gasped, widening his eyes, turning them to Edwin. “Will Jane teach me?” he asked hopefully.

Ever since Nicholas first visited the Lord Commander’s home, when he was seven, and heard the beautiful melodies humming out from Jane Desmond’s piano and echoing throughout the house, he had asked and pleaded and begged her to teach him how to play. She had refused him, not because she was cruel, but simply because she did not think she was good enough to teach him. Meanwhile, Nicholas put his foot down and stubbornly refused to be taught by anyone other than her.

“Yes,” Edwin answered, laughing again and fondly tousling Nicholas’ ebony hair. “King Ragnarok has permitted Jane to come here every Monday to teach you.”

Nicholas whooped and embraced Edwin, delighted. “Thank you so much,” he said enthusiastically. “I promise I will learn to play just like her, and she will never regret giving me lessons.”

“You won’t learn anything if you’re late to see the king,” Edwin warned amusedly, bending to pick up the boy’s thin blade and handing it over to him.

Nicholas beamed, and took it from his mentor, balancing his new book in one of his hands whilst using the other to sheath his sword. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

“I should think so,” said Edwin, smiling.

With one last grin thrown at the older man, Nicholas rushed back to the palace. They normally sparred in the Palace Gardens just outside the main manor, so he did not have to sprint far and he reached the home he shared with his guardian within two minutes.

It had been eight years since King Ragnarok had adopted him and, while many of the details of that day had been kept from him, like who is father – his real father – was, Nicholas still held onto the hope of one day knowing the truth about it all. After all, Ragnarok himself had vowed to tell him once he thought he was old enough. His time with the Goblins had been fraught with hardships, as many Goblins did not seem to like him for reasons unknown to him, but he had managed . . . with the support of the king, of course.

He ran past the many serving elves going about their daily routines around the palace, heading straight for his bedchamber on the first floor. Nicholas tore off his sweat-stained shirt and trousers just as he entered his room, throwing them into the laundry basket that Hodrey – Nicholas’ personal manservant – had angrily instructed him to place his dirty clothes, and darted straight into his bathroom to shower.

King Ragnarok never like tardiness.

Ten minutes of scrubbing passed, and Nicholas stepped out of the shower, dressing into one of the clean tunics hung in his wardrobe as well as a pair of slacks. He did not bother to dry his hair since Ragnarok did not care whether it was wet or dry so much as he did when it was dirty or clean, so Nicholas hurried out of his bedchamber and walked briskly over to Ragnarok’s study which, thankfully, was only down the hallway.

Nicholas stood outside the doors for a moment, composing his breathing. Only once it had slowed, did he push the large double oak doors to reveal Ragnarok along with, surprisingly, Edwin who stood in front of the king’s desk with his hands clutched behind him.

Both occupants turned their attention to the newcomer.

“Ah!” Edwin exclaimed. “There he is!”

Nicholas stepped into the room and moved to stand beside Edwin, bowing his back in respect to King Ragnarok. “Well met, Your Grace,” he greeted respectfully.

Ragnarok growled jovially, bowing his head in return. “Well met, Your Highness.”

The greeting was typical of two royals meeting one another, traditional for the Goblins, and Ragnarok had drilled this greeting into Nicholas since the boy was old enough to form complete sentences.

“With respect, Lord Commander,” said Nicholas, turning to Edwin, “you were supposed to be making your way to Germany, were you not? I had thought there was some dispute from the western magicals over the reunification of the East and West.”

“There are many issues regarding that, but most of the threat the western magicals were worried about had been handled yesterday,” Edwin told him. “Knight Commander Mason had just informed me that she was able to track down where most of the escapees had hidden after the raid we performed. The official reunification of Germany should be taking place later this year, as planned.”

Ragnarok spoke curiously, “The escapees . . . are they Grindelwald sympathisers?”

Nicholas, too, was interested in the people who were leading the Western Allies to believe it would be too dangerous to allow two sides of a country the chance of resolution.

“Most likely, Your Grace,” Edwin replied. “We shall see from the interrogations when they are found.”

“Keep me posted, Lord Commander,” Ragnarok said, thinking. “There have not been any large fluctuations or familiar patterns in the daily finances of any members of the old magical families so I do not believe these criminals have been conspiring like they had been in wars previous.”

“This is promising news,” said Edwin, nodding. “Nevertheless, I will push for probing for co-conspirators. While these people may not be Death Eaters or Grindelwald’s lackeys, I must ensure that they are not acting through some other organisation.”

"Very good," Ragnarok settled. "Now, Lord Commander, I called you here today on less urgent business. I want you to act as an advisor." He reached across his desk and picked up an envelope, holding it up towards Nicholas. "This is addressed to you, Nicholas. It came while you were training."

Nicholas stood frozen at the sudden switch, but then took a few steps forward, grabbing the letter in his guardian’s hand. He looked at the front of the envelope and saw that it was indeed addressed to him, and then he turned it over to the back where an ancient crest carrying the symbols of a lion, eagle, badger, and snake was presented in the wax seal – meaning it could only be one thing.

“My Hogwarts letter,” he whispered. “It came.”

“Open it, little prince,” Ragnarok urged, grinning with all razor-sharp teeth visible.

Nicholas did so with shaking hands; this was turning out to be one of the few aspects of his life that is normal, and he treasured it. He unfolded the parchment and began to read:

 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/167146098@N03/32166948177/in/dateposted/)

 

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY._

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Westerly,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at_ _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ _. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on_ _1 September_ _. We await your owl by no later than_ _31_ _ st _ _July_ _._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

  

Nicholas turned the page and found the aforementioned list of school supplies compulsory for a first-year. His stomach shifted uneasily in apprehension, yet the butterflies excitedly fluttering inside did not seem to be stopping anytime soon. He had been accepted into the school that he had been fantasising about for as long as he had known about it.

A sinking feeling took over when he recalled what Ragnarok said before.

“Why does Edwin need to advise me about this?” Nicholas asked anxiously, gripping onto the letter a little bit tighter.

“Because,” Ragnarok began cautiously, “I need you to consider everything before you make up your mind about attending Hogwarts.”

Warily, Nicholas claimed, "Surely there is not a lot that I do not already know." 

Suddenly, Nicholas felt smaller. Ragnarok gazed at him, wearing the most expressive look he had ever seen on his face, filled with regret and sadness and pity, and Nicholas did not know what to think.

“What I am about to say cannot leave this room,” Ragnarok told them. “There is only one other who knows the whole truth, and that is Rockstooth. You will both understand the need for secrecy once I tell you everything.”

Edwin’s face instantly hardened, and Nicholas could see this was not the first time the Lord Commander was asked to keep secrets.

“Do you require an oath, Your Grace?”

“I would prefer it,” Ragnarok responded, opening a drawer to the left of him and pulling out a single folded piece of parchment. “I had one written for you beforehand should you have offered.”

Edwin accepted and read through the vow, nodding in acceptance of its wording. He then pulled out his wand – thirteen and a half inches of Cypress with a Phoenix Feather core – from the holster on his arm, starting his oath, "I, Lord Commander Edwin Charles Desmond, swear on my body, mind, and magic, to keep all secrets disclosed to me by King Ragnarok III, and only discuss them with those that are confirmed to have the knowledge imparted to me."

Nicholas watched as a soft blue glow encompassed Edwin before fading away.

“Nicholas,” Ragnarok called for his attention. “You will not be required to make a vow, but I need to know if you understand how important it is to keep this secret from everyone that is not me, the Lord Commander, or Rockstooth.  

He slowly gave a nod of understanding.

Ragnarok visible exhaled a long breath in the silence that took over, and Nicholas fearfully questioned why he seemed so guilty when he looked into his eyes.

Little did Nicholas know that Ragnarok was thinking about how those young boy’s silver eyes would never hold the same naivety – the same innocence – after he left his room.

“There was a prophecy made,” Ragnarok told them, “before Nicholas was even born.” He poured out all his knowledge and theories out onto the two humans in front of him and struggled to keep his emotions in check. It was not fair for the boy to know all of this, to know of the darkness in this world as such a young age. It was not fair that it had to be Ragnarok imparting this information to the boy, stripping him of his childhood with one fell swoop, just so he could understand why it would be best for him to be tutored privately. It was not fair that Nicholas should be snatched of his dreams just because the greater good demanded it.

It was simply _not fair._

Edwin mulled over King Ragnarok’s words, sitting in the chair he had conjured for himself while the king still told his story. “There will be another Dark Lord?”

Ragnarok shook his head. “It is not likely to be a new Dark Lord. Nicholas was established as the Prince of the Prophecy at the time when Lord Voldemort was still at large. Also, Harry Potter was recognised as Saviour when Voldemort marked him with a scar on the night of his parents’ deaths.”

“What of the – uh – the Lioness, was it?” Edwin asked unsurely.

“Yes, the Lioness,” Ragnarok confirmed.

“Do you know who she is?”

“No, I do not,” said Ragnarok. “She is the only figure that remains shrouded in mystery.”

Nicholas swallowed down the lump in his throat, blinking back his tears. He lifted his head up from where it had dropped to dejectedly face the ground. His voice was shaky as he spoke, “What does it mean by our souls being _bound by fate?_ ”

Ragnarok avoided the prince’s gaze. “I believe it describes what is called a soul-bond by wizards. This is something that occurs when two magical beings are recognised upon birth by the Earth’s Core Magic as being perfectly compatible for one another in mind, body, and magic. The deep magic running throughout the Earth then binds these individuals together so they are always led to each other, and incomplete without the other. From what I have read over the years, the process of discovering the other could take as little as a few months from the day of birth, to even decades. Nonetheless, I have faith we shall know who she is quite soon. A young girl that is meant to be a _sovereign in magic_ is not easy to keep hidden.”

Edwin furrowed his eyebrows, whispering, “A powerful girl?”

“You have suspicions, Lord Commander,” Ragnarok questioned interestedly.

“A hunch, Your Grace,” Edwin said slowly. “I met a remarkable girl five years ago. She had a great burst of accidental magic – none like I had ever seen. Her anguish had begun to leak into her surrounding environment, swirling the strongest of winds around her that only seemed to get stronger as the minutes passed. It took a great deal to calm her.”

Nicholas frowned. “Why was she so sad?”

“She was . . .” Edwin hesitated. “She was abandoned by someone who should have cared deeply for her.”

“She was born in the mundane world,” Ragnarok guessed.

Edwin nodded.

“I had expected as much,” the king went on. “The old pure-blood families are too inbred to have magical ability past the bare minimum. Fresh blood has the most power.”

The Lord Commander hummed in agreement. “I’ve been keeping watch over her at a distance. She is due to get her own Hogwarts letter in September if I recall correctly. Still, I’ll push for the Druid Union to send her our own offer on my own personal recommendation. I would feel better knowing that she’d be attending my Institute.”

Nicholas measured their words despondently. “There is a chance that she will be in Hogwarts with me?”

Ragnarok sighed. “Apparently so, little prince. Yet –” He stepped off of his desk and walked over to Nicholas, coming to stand in front of him, “I think you have realised why you are likely not going to attend Hogwarts.”

“I am the Prince who will be King from the Prophecy,” said Nicholas, nearly diplomatically, but the shine in his metallic eyes gave away more of his emotion than he had wanted. “And Hogwarts . . . Hogwarts cannot teach me to be King.”

Ragnarok lowered his head in shame.

Edwin spoke at that moment, “There are many reasons why you should not go, Your Highness, but you’ve hit the nail on the head. Hogwarts is too plagued with texts and instructors with extreme bias not befitting the education of someone who will, one day, be the country’s impartial head of government. Hogwarts would simply be a waste of time. Time that is already too sparse for you.”

A tear rolled down Nicholas’ cheek. “So am I to just wait until the Dark Lord returns?”

“Yes,” Ragnarok rumbled, sharing his grief and anger.

The years that followed were the longest Nicholas had even known. He trained, and learned, and trained, and learned, over and over again, repeating the same routine day in and day out, until . . .

Nicholas’ eyes finally chanced upon those of the Lioness, and the years fell away from his thoughts like leaves in autumn.


	2. The Druid's Proposal

Hermione received an offer every year, without fail.

Her declines had never seemed to deter their eager attempts to get her to accept their proposition; seeing as they were giving her the chance to attend an institution for the brightest minds the world has to offer, allowing her to be a part of something far bigger than just her own country. They did not seem to see any sound reason why she should be turning them down, even if she _had_ refused them about four times now.

There was no denying that Hermione was thrilled to receive such a summons, honoured to be considered worthy of such privilege. And with every year that passed, she had only found it more and more difficult to quill her rejections to the representatives of the institution, mostly because of their apparently increasing desire to have her attend. They had begun with little offers in their annual correspondences – benefits and the like – and the motions had only intensified as the years flew. In their last offer – the one that arrived in the summer before her fourth-year at Hogwarts – they had given her the chance to join the institution under a full scholarship, wherein all of her needs would have been taken care of for the duration of her attendance.

Her mother had been quite intrigued by this, though she had reiterated that it was always going to be Hermione’s choice, and if Hermione changed her mind and wanted to go, there would be no protest against the relocation to Rome where the esteemed Druid Institute was located.

Despite this, Hermione was unsure; _How can I trust there isn’t some ulterior motive?_ _They’re just so . . . so desperate._ Back when Hermione had been using her parents as an excuse to not leave Hogwarts in second-year, stating that she did not feel it right to ask them to pack up their lives just for her, they had actually sent over one of their representatives, who had then promptly taken the opportunity to introduce her to Portkey travel. But unfortunately for them, second-year had also been the year she had solidified her friendships in Hogwarts, and she did not particularly feel the need to lose those friendships any time soon. They had become a very solid reason that she did not leave. Her best friend, Harry Potter, specifically almost always seemed to find himself stuck in situations where he was in mortal danger. Hermione did not understand what it was about his normally quiet – somewhat shy – nature that attracted trouble in the immense heaps it buried him in, but she knew she could not consider leaving him to face it alone . . . especially now that he needed all the supporters he could possibly have.

Their fourth-year had been left in shambles with the death of Cedric Diggory and the return of Lord Voldemort. Any doubts Hermione might have had about the terrible war which had taken Harry’s parents were ripped from her mind as Cedric’s and Harry’s bodies slammed into the ground outside the Triwizard Maze.

At that grim moment that seemed so long ago, Hermione’s stomach dropped and tears filled her eyes. Harry had not moved an inch since he had come back, clutching the Triwizard Cup in one hand, and gripping Cedric with the other. His face had been pressed against the ground, and Hermione truly thought her fears had come true; that Harry had died trying to win that _wretched_ tournament.

In reality, Hermione wondered if what had actually happened could be considered better or worse for Harry. She, and Ron, had started to scramble over the very moment that Harry had returned from the Third Task and they had been close enough to hear what he had whispered to Dumbledore when the Headmaster had turned him around:

_“He’s back . . . Voldemort’s back.”_

Hermione’s frightened eyes met Ron’s and – for the first time in a long time – she felt as helpless as a child. Moody carried Harry away amongst the chaos of the revelation of Cedric’s death, and Molly Weasley gathered her children together, holding them close, as Hermione’s shaking hands itched to embrace her own mother.

During the summer after the dreadful event, Hermione’s fear gave way to rage. It appeared as though the Ministry and the Minister for Magic were doing all they could to ignore the claims of Voldemort’s return. Like a candle that had been left burning all night, Hermione’s faith in their authority had gradually melted away from her mind as their smear campaign against Harry and Dumbledore – the two people who were most vehement about the return – continued. The Daily Prophet released disgusting articles depicting Harry as an _‘attention-seeker,’_ and Dumbledore as a _‘senile old man,’_ and these lies effectively plagued the minds of the wizarding public.

She could not even begin to understand why the Ministry would do something so beneath them, especially as protest of Voldemort’s return. Hermione granted them the absence of any evidence of the claim, making them less likely to accept something as massive as the return of the Dark Lord, but they were so clearly denying it that she was sure it would be their downfall . . . unless there was a way to prove Harry’s words. 

A soft drawling voice drew Hermione away from her troubled thoughts.

“If you don’t stop that right now, I fear I’ll develop a headache.” Daphne Greengrass was sat upon the floor of Hermione’s bedroom with a number of books and parchment laid around her; the quill in her hand scratching against the parchment as she wrote her essay for Transfiguration. All golden hair and strikingly blue eyes, Hermione knew Daphne made a gorgeous sight to many. “How can I do my work when I can _feel_ you thinking?” she asked.

Hermione laughed sheepishly. “Homework usually requires thinking, you know.”

Daphne raised one light eyebrow. “You’re not doing homework.” She reached forward and snatched the parchment in front of Hermione, nearly spilling the ink pot placed over it as a paperweight in the process.

“Hey!” Hermione protested, sitting up and trying to get her homework. “Give it back!”

Daphne batted away Hermione’s hands as she quickly glanced at the page. “Won’t you look at that?” Her smile was tight-lipped and hardly noticeable, but it’s smugness irked Hermione no less. “You haven’t written a new sentence in ten minutes, Granger. What’s bothering you?”

Hermione slumped back and met Daphne’s gaze, once again pondering over how the two unlikely friends had come so far as to not only be friends, but _good_ friends - best friends, some may say – though Daphne would probably never admit it, she was sure.

It took time, a lot of time – about a year and a half – but their companionship was built upon the foundations of mutual understanding, and mounted on its pillars of support and encouragement. Their friendship was as natural as the blooming of a flower, and, just as the idea of flowers wilting in the winter, and then blooming again in the spring astounded her when she was younger, their friendship astounded equally. After all, how could she have ever predicted that the most intelligent and comforting female friend she would ever have was going to be a member of Slytherin House?

There were many traits they shared, ironic only in the belief that they were traits that stereotypically belonged to those within Ravenclaw, and they often joked how they could have been roommates if only the Sorting Hat had placed them both where everyone thought they belonged.

Hermione originally met Daphne on the Hogwarts Express when she had been searching for Neville’s toad. But their meeting had been a fleeting conversation she could hardly remember. Preferably, Hermione liked to pretend that she had properly met Daphne in the Hogwarts Library in second-year as this was when they had both escaped from the rivalry of their respective Hogwarts Houses and actually got to know each other.

Back then, Daphne was far more closed-off – almost a brick wall – but, by the end of the year when Hermione had returned from the Hospital Wing after her petrification, she had knocked down a few of the blocks between them to hand Hermione all of the notes she had taken during classes, telling her she was an idiot all the while.  

Hermione sighed, knowing there was no way she could avoid Daphne’s question. At the worst of times, the girl could be as stubborn as her. “What do you know about the Druid Union?”

Daphne dotted the parchment to end her sentence and placed down her quill, thinking for a moment before telling her, “My father’s talked about them before. And we’re going to learn about them in History of Magic next year. They were responsible for the Statute of Secrecy being instated worldwide so the peace between the magical and muggle worlds could be kept.”

“I remember reading about that,” said Hermione. “Nearly everyone had different opinions on whether or not magic should be revealed to the rest of the world. And it nearly ended in war before the Druids intervened. They performed some experiments on muggles. They simply revealed the existence of magic to those who had volunteered and recorded their reactions – which, unfortunately, were mostly negative – and then they obliviated them of ever knowing about magic at all. The Druids finally set up a meeting between the representatives for every magical colony and presented their research.”

“You’ve been reading ahead,” Daphne stated obviously. 

Hermione shrugged. “You know I do.”

“Well, luckily for you,” said Daphne, “I’ve been reading ahead, too. The Druids presented their ideas for the Statute of Secrecy at that meeting and all the magical colonies banded together, agreeing that magic was better left a secret from the muggles. From then on, the Druid Union were known as the Founders of both the Statute of Secrecy and the International Confederation.”

“Correct!”

“Shut up,” Daphne snapped. “Why is this relevant?”

She paused for a few seconds before she bluntly answered, “Their school – the Druid Institution – they . . . well, they’ve been offering me places every year.”

Daphne widened her eyes. “What?” Her voice was a low whisper as she processed what she had been told. “You’re being serious?”

“Yes.”

“That – That’s . . .” Daphne blinked, and her face suddenly lit up when the sides of her lips lifted in a gentle smile that might as well have been the brightest of beams. “That’s wonderful, Hermione.” Her eyes shone a bright and joyous blue, reminding Hermione of the time she had gone on a cruise with her parents, and how the colour of the Atlantic Ocean had almost matched the sky, and how she could not, at one point, differentiate the two at their point of horizon. A long time ago, Hermione would have been surprised by the look on Daphne’s face, but now she knew the stereotype of Slytherins being evil – with the exception of a select few who would be horrid no matter what – was very untrue.

The girls would support each other wherever possible, she was sure, as they had done many times before. In third-year, when Hermione had fallen out with Harry and Ron, Daphne had been there to comfort her, resolutely telling her that she was right to do what she had done. And during the summer before fourth-year, when Daphne had been given an ultimatum by her parents wherein she would have to decide on a betrothal before she was seventeen or be disowned entirely – leaving her to tearfully run to Hermione’s home and sob into the girl’s shoulder the very second she opened the door.

Daphne’s eyebrows then scrunched together. “But why have you refused the offers?” she asked confusedly. “You do know this is the most prestigious magical school in the world, don’t you? That every magical person dreams of going there?”

“I know,” she responded simply. “I just don’t think I can up and leave Hogwarts like it means nothing to me.”

Daphne sat back, her legs still crossed, and she regarded Hermione searchingly.

There were many aspects of Hermione that Daphne respected, and there were many other qualities that she did not like as much as the others. Hermione’s intelligence went undisputed in her mind; only Merlin knew how hard Daphne tried to beat her test scores but had never been able to because the girl was always, _always_ one step ahead.

But _everyone_ knew that about Hermione. Daphne had spent more time with her, and thus knew her far better than everyone else. She was generous to a fault – both with the time she had always been willing to give, and her possessions – and Daphne had soon enough realised this may have been due to her not having that many friends when she was younger. Hermione was fiercely loyal and Daphne understood a friendship with the girl would be a friendship for life.

“Potter,” she ultimately realised. “You feel like you can’t leave him.” 

“It’s not just Harry,” said Hermione, staring at her best female friend meaningfully.

“I don’t need you.” Daphne’s words may have been considered harsh if it were not for the soft voice she had spoken them in.

“No?” Hermione laughed ruefully. “Then maybe I need you.”

Daphne rolled her eyes. “Shush that soppy rubbish. Have you heard from Potter?”  

Hermione matched Daphne’s position, sitting back. “No,” she answered. “Dumbledore didn’t want any of us contacting him.”

“He wants Potter to be alone right after he watched someone die?” Daphne stared at her like there was some strange pimple on her face.

“I know,” said Hermione. “That’s why I wrote to Harry twice anyway, but he didn’t answer either of them. I don’t think he feels up to writing after all that happened.”

“Or it could be that the letters were intercepted and Potter didn’t see them at all,” Daphne asserted. “Do you really think Dumbledore would tell you and your other friends not to write without having precautions in place?”

“It’s a possibility,” Hermione admitted.

 _But why would Dumbledore go so far in keeping Harry isolated_?

An abrupt pecking coming from the bedroom window startled both girls. They looked over and saw a great eagle; it’s dark wings almost obscured by the darkness of the night outside, but its white head stood out. Black eyes watched the girls steadily as if they, too, would be its prey. A letter was wrapped around one of its legs.

Hermione released her breath in relief. She stood and ambled over to the window, briefly glimpsing at Crookshanks scratching at his post in the corner of her room as she did so, then pulling on the latch and sliding it upwards. The eagle instantly stepped into the room, eyeing its surroundings and almost immediately noticing the perch Hermione had set up for Harry’s owl, Hedwig – since the journey to her house always tired the poor owl – and it swiftly flew over, settling onto the perch.

“That’s not Potter’s bird,” Daphne guessed.

“No,” Hermione snorted, “Harry has an owl. I think it’s this year’s offer from the Druid Union. It’s a bit late than usual.”

The blonde girl raised an eyebrow. “Is it, now?”

“Shut up,” Hermione snapped, throwing an only half-meant glare at her.

“You were being cocky.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to.”

The eager lifted its leg and she pried the letter off from it as Daphne laughed quietly. Hermione walked to Daphne then, sitting down next to her while unrolling the parchment. As the letter was straightened out, the familiar crest consisting of a sprawled dark phoenix, with a protruding sword between its wings, surrounded by a druidical wreath, greeted her. She ripped the letter open and began to read:

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/167146098@N03/46194900995/in/photostream/)

 

 _Dear Miss. Granger,_

_It has come to my knowledge you have been rejecting many of the proposals the Druid Institute have been making to you. As the Headmaster of the Institution and also Lord Commander of the Druid Union, I am personally writing to you so you may be enlightened of the many opportunities we can offer._

_As you are most probably aware, the Druid Union is a large order that has become one of the main defences against international magical disaster. This reputation does not go without its advantages._

_To any student who graces our halls, we offer a range of courses from which you will be permitted to pick eleven. I will have to admit, though, you may have to choose the compulsory core subjects you are currently studying at Hogwarts as seven of those you will be taking should you transfer. However, other subjects in which you can enrol yourself include Alchemy, Animancy, Druid Abjuration, Geomancy, Spellcrafting, Swordcraft, Occlumency, and many others. Further, the Druid Union will be able to aid you into virtually any line of work od your choosing through the many connections we have kept in our centuries of world affairs._

_Nevertheless, this we offer to all of our students._

_We, as an organisation, believe you are capable of many great things, Miss. Granger. Your remarkable talents in knowledgeability, and your practical skills in magic, have been two of the many reasons we have been keeping track of you, and we wish to give you a much larger proposition._

_You will be sitting your OWL’s this coming year and we will send you one last offer to attend the Druid Institute after which your decision will stand as final. Personally, I believe we need not bother sending another offer. After five years of inflexibility, your firm decision will not be changing any time soon. This is why I am proposing to you an unconditional place as Knight on the Druid Union. You shall receive a formal job offer in your final year at Hogwarts, but we would be pleased if you could reply to let us know if this is something that interests you._

_I cannot stress to you how rarely we think anyone to deserve such an honour, Miss. Granger. However, I want you to know there is no hint of regret or anger or desperation in this as we merely see it as a compromise between two persistent forces. We had meant to offer you this job once you had graduated from the Druid Institute anyway._

 

_I hope to be working alongside you one day._

_Sincerely,_

_Edwin Desmond_

_(Lord Commander of the Druid Union, Headmaster of the Druid Institute)_

 

“If you refuse this,” Daphne began, “I will slap you so hard you’ll bleed.”

Hermione did not have a clever reply, too stunned from receiving such a proposition. Seeing as the Druid Union was an exclusive enough organisation, she had been surprised when she had found out – from a whole lot of research after her first invitation – that there were ranks amongst its members. From the bottom, as only students attending the Druid Institute, the Ovates had to work upwards to gain any other title. Just above them, the Druids were those of the Ovates who had managed to graduate; Archdruids exceeded that rank, having gone on to study a mastery in a Druidical subject. The Druid Knights rose above the Archdruids because of their sole purpose to serve and protect the Druid Union, and the Knight Commanders – just as their name would suggest – commanded those Knights. The most senior of all of those ranks was the Lord Commander.

To think the most esteemed magical organisation in the world had considered and then actually given her a place amongst one of their highest ranks when she had not even graduated yet . . . well, a surge of pride – with some healthy bouts of fear – swept through her like a tidal wave.

“You’re not slapping anyone today,” Hermione said out loud.

“You’re accepting?” asked Daphne excitedly.

Hermione pulled a clean parchment towards herself and reached for Daphne’s quill. There was no rejection to be possibly given; this was the best job she could ever receive and she would not let it go to waste. “I’d be an idiot to refuse.”

 _“Girls!”_ Hermione’s mother shouted up the stairs then. _“Dinner!”_

“You go on downstairs,” said Hermione. “Tell Mum I’m just finishing off a letter.”

Daphne uncrossed her legs and stood, dusting down the plain blue summer dress Hermione had insisted she wear in place of her more reserved clothing since the heatwave sweeping past London for the last few days had been _abominable._ “You better finish it quickly,” she told Hermione, “you know your mum gets cross if you let your dinner get cold.”

“Trust me,” said Hermione, “I know.”

Daphne smirked as she exited the room and descended down the stairs.

Once again, the blonde found herself stunned at how easily she had become a part of this small family. To know that it had all started because of Hermione Granger’s insistence to meet in the Hogwarts Library – even after the fight she had with her friends in third-year had been resolved and she no longer needed Daphne for company, and even though the tensions between their rival houses only appeared to be rising as the years passed. Daphne knew Hermione would always have that underlying fear of losing Weasley and Potter as friends just because she was friends with Daphne, but she still continued to risk it, she refused to budge . . . even when Daphne had told her she would understand.  

Past that point, Daphne had become truthful with herself; Hermione Jean Granger was her best and truest friend. Daphne had let her walls down – she had become truly honest and open – for only her. And Hermione did not flinch at anything she admitted, just as Daphne did not flinch at anything Hermione told her. Hermione remained as firm as steel as Daphne spoke of her childhood as a pure-blood, as she told her of how – at one point – she had wished she did not have parents, for that would have freed her from their expectations and their lack of love for anything but their traditional values.

Daphne’s resolve had shattered for the first time with Hermione, and she had cried for the years of facades she had to carry out with her mother and father, for the years she pretended to be a loving daughter with doting parents – the _perfect pure-blood family_.

Her own Hogwarts House – Slytherin – was supposed to be a place where she could find her real friends, and yet it was full to the brink with a bunch of conspirators who would turn on her in a split second if Daphne ever revealed the true nature of the Greengrass family, and they would do so just so they could gain favour with their own families.

Third-year had been when Daphne allowed herself to be true to her emotions. Hermione simply listened to everything Daphne had told her about her home-life, she watched as reserved tears fell down her cheeks, and she had carefully walked around the large table they usually sat at in the library to sit right beside her. At first, Hermione had only grasped her hand tightly, but when Daphne had peeked up at her, she had leaned forward and wrapped her in the warmest embrace the blonde could ever remember being held in.

The following holidays, Hermione invited Daphne over to her home; this was where Daphne had finally experienced what a real family was like . . . what the truest form of love looked like. That summer was also the time Hermione had opened up about her own life, revealing the sadness she hid so well.

“Watch yourself, Daphne!” 

Daphne stumbled over on the shoulder bag laying on the threshold of the kitchen door and would have fallen to the floor if it was not for Richard Granger quickly gripping her forearm and pulling upwards to keep her upright. His golden hair, nearly the same shade as her own, shone in the bright light of the kitchen, and his green eyes reflected sheepish apologies. He was tall and lean, and he was young – only a little stubble covering his cheeks. He looked nothing like Hermione.

“Sorry, Daph,” Richard grinned easily, “I tried warning you.”

“I don’t know why you keep leaving your stupid bag there, Richard,” Emma Granger scolded from the side, the pot in front of her clanging as she scooped out the rice she had made and placed it into a serving dish. She was very slender, and as young as her husband, and poised as though she had grown in the wind; her hair was the brown of fallen autumn leaves. Inwardly, Daphne noted that despite the fact Emma’s hair was far smoother than Hermione’s, the family resemblance between mother and daughter was clearly visible in the gentle lift of their lips, the soft curve of their button-noses, and the way their twin chocolate eyes sparkled as though they carried all the warmth of the sun, a ring of gold hanging inside their irises – reflecting kindness and reassurance and . . . home.

“Oi!” Richard objected. “You said you liked my bag only a few weeks ago!” 

“That was back when you got it new and I didn’t know you’d leave it lying around like it was your job,” Emma said dryly.

They continued quarrelling all through the final dinner preparations, and when Hermione had come downstairs at last, they had begun quarrelling with her, too. Through the fights, Daphne did not feel frightened, not one bit. In fact, she smiled, and laughed, and let the joy of being part of a family that cherished her wash over her like a warm shower after a fifteen-year storm.

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

A few days later, Daphne had returned home after having decided that spending a week with the Grangers was already pushing it, even though she had not exactly told her parents which friend’s house she was staying in.

Hermione deliberated over what Daphne had suspected about Dumbledore intercepting her letters to Harry. It was very plausible, she thought, as she knew Harry was not the kind of person to completely ignore letters from his friends – he would reply with a sentence if he was too grumpy to talk to them, but he would reply nevertheless – as it would be a small break away from those horrid relatives of his. Unfortunately, the acceptance of Daphne’s theory now left Hermione with the dilemma of figuring out how to contact Harry.

An idea had instantly come into her mind, but she was hesitant to carry it out due to Dumbledore most likely finding out and berating her for not following his direct orders. Her fear dissipated, though, when she thought how Harry would be blaming himself for what happened. Hermione feared exclusion from Hogwarts, and she dreaded the idea of being reprimanded by its widely-respected Headmaster, Dumbledore, but – more than her fears – she did not like the idea of Harry hating her for abandoning him.

The night before, Hermione had tossed and turned and measured it all out. If this got her excluded from Hogwarts, then she had the Druid Institute as her substitute. If she lost Harry as a friend, then she had no clue what she would do; she had Ron and Daphne, yes, but Harry was a part of her just as Ron and Daphne were.

Her jaw set the next morning. She had gotten up, had breakfast, and asked her parents if she could go see Harry. Their answer was given amongst teasing remarks – as they never truly believed she did not fancy Harry nor Ron – but they saw Hermione was being serious and relented soon enough. They told her to be back before seven, or to call them if she thought she was going to be a bit late.

As she stepped on the edge of the curb, she stuck her wand out to call for the Knight Bus. The heat-wave was as ruthless as it had been for the past week; Hermione felt the hotness pushing in on her – almost claustrophobically – and beads of sweat had already begun to form on her forehead. She pulled the collar of her sundress and waved some air to her boiling neck, not at all looking forward to the journey she would be taking. It would be rocky, and confining, yet – Hermione sighed –  it would be worth the speed in comparison to the _several_ _hours_ it would take to get to Surrey in a Muggle bus. Hermione and Daphne had used this method of transportation quite often in the last two summers they had spent together.

Five minutes passed before Hermione heard distant shouts and raucous crashes, signalling the approach of the Knight Bus. The purple triple-decker nearly smashed into several of the cars parked on the side of Hermione’s street, but it managed to stop right in front of her without causing any wreckage.

Stanley Shunpike was an unkempt man of about twenty-two with large, protruding ears and quite a lot of pimples. His purple uniform matched the colour of the bus he worked on perfectly.

“Hermione!” Stanley exclaimed, grinning with all his crooked teeth, his cockney accent as thick as ever. “Nice seein’ ya again!"

“Hello, Stan,” said Hermione, smiling pleasantly. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but don’t you only work nights?” 

Stan rolled his eyes as he stepped back and motioned for Hermione to come in through the bus door. “I do,” he told her, “then Jamie had to go and get sick, di’nt he? I had to cover for his selfish arse.” He shook his head crossly.

“Oh, don’t be so rude,” Hermione chided amusedly, carefully manoeuvring around the small space. “He’d do the same for you, and you know it.”

“Only ‘cause he has to.” Stan pulled the lever to close the doors with a groan. “Where ya headed, by the way?”

“Surrey, please,” Hermione replied, “Privet Drive, if you can.”

Stan scrunched up his face and raised his eyes while counting on his fingers, looking to all the world like he was doing the hardest calculations in the world. “Thirteen sickles, I think,” he decided.

Hermione lifted her coin purse from the brown bag she kept over her shoulder and counted out the money, handing them to the conductor who gladly accepted them.

“Sit yourself down,” he told her, “don’t need you bumpin’ ya head like last time!” He laughed and twisted his head around her to then shout, “Take it away, Ern!” 

She barely had any time to make herself somewhat comfortable in the hard-cushioned seats of the Knight Bus before her head was jerked hardly to the side as the bus speedily twisted around the streets of London.

The several spells of nausea throughout the journey made her dizzy and she tightly gripped her nose and mouth with her hand, trying with all her might to not go through the embarrassment of vomiting in front of all the other people taking the Knight Bus. Hermione focused on her breathing and, as the bus zipped down a hill road, causing her stomach to lurch upwards, she wretched once again, praying to whatever deity they would get to Privet Drive soon.

Her divine reply came fifteen minutes later, and in the voice of Stanley Shunpike:

“Here we go – Privet Drive, Surrey.”

Hermione shuddered despite the heat, finally opening her eyes and standing up on shaky legs. “Thank you, Stan,” she muttered, “I’ll probably be calling again to get home.”

“Just stick your wand out when ya need us!” Stan chimed, tipping his hat at her.

The moment Hermione stepped off, the Knight Bus’ exhaust popped loudly and it rushed off to its next destination. As the bangs and crashes grew quieter, Hermione glanced around at the street Harry lived on.

The road was sleek with new tarmac, not a pothole or crack in sight, but the trees that sprouted out every few meters on the side of the pavements were gnarled and embittered, tall but without any strength to them. Hermione observed the silence of the street; there was a complete lack of children taking advantage of the heat to have water fights, no couples passing by complaining about the weather, and no sight of families getting ready to go to the beach. Perhaps it was just simply too hot for anyone to even think of going outside, but Hermione rather thought this was just about the dullest street in England.

Gazing over to see where she had been dropped off, the number ‘18’ was written out in large block numbers. Hermione walked down the street, taking care to keep track of the house numbers as she passed by them.

Thankfully, Hermione noticed a familiar head of unruly black hair in the distance. She quickened her pace in her gladness to see her best friend, and reached 4, Privet Drive within thirty seconds of spotting Harry Potter. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt and blue jeans, both of which were covered in patches of green and weeds, and he was trimming the bushes to the side of the front garden – no doubt, he had been given this task by the Durselys. Harry was faced away from her, so he had not noticed her approach, but he appeared to be having some trouble with one particular branch which refused to be clipped. In his insistence to get at it, he cut his elbow on one of the thorns in the rose bushes right beside him.

“Bloody hell,” Harry cursed lowly.

Hermione did not hold back her amusement and snickered – to his surprise.

Harry spun around and exclaimed, “Hermione!”

“Would you like some help with that?” she asked cheekily, pointedly glancing at the branch he had still not been able to get.

“Wha – How –” Harry stuttered, placing down the clippers in his hand, taking off his gloves, and walking to the front gate where Hermione was currently stood. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, of course!” Hermione responded, hugging him happily.

Harry did not hug back, but shrugged her arms off and leaned away from her. There was irritation in his green eyes. “You and Ron didn’t reply to my letters.”

She threw him a look of apology, hurt by his disaffection. “I should have come here earlier than today, I know, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me. I didn’t get any letters you sent me, nor did Ron now that I think about it, and I’m guessing you didn’t get any of the letters we sent you –”

“You sent me letters?” Harry asked so disbelievingly that it almost irked her.

“Yes, and I think they were intercepted.”

“Intercepted?” He narrowed his eyes. “Who would do that?”

“Well, Dumbledore told me and Ron not to leave you be over the summer –” When Harry looked ready to interrupt, Hermione raised up a hand to stop him, and carried on speaking, “I don’t know why so don’t ask, but I sent you two letters anyway, both of which I’m guessing you didn’t receive . . .”

Harry shook his head.

“Dumbledore has most likely been intercepting owls so you’re kept on the dark about everything that’s going on – the point of which, I don’t understand, so I didn’t agree with, and now I’m here.” Hermione spread out her arms, smiling.

Harry’s suspicion melted from his face at her smile, and he nodded. “What’s been going on in the magical world, then?” He motioned for her to take a seat on the porch before putting his gloves back on to finish his chores.

“Wait,” said Hermione, looking around, “won’t your family start a witch hunt if they saw me here?” Some of the stories he had told her were always large indications of how much they hated wizardry.

“Nah,” Harry replied. “Uncle Vernon’s working, and Aunt Petunia went to her friend’s house. Dudley’s probably at the park with his gang and won’t be back till late.”

“And they just leave you here . . . alone?”

Harry only shrugged, clipping off another stray branch from the bush.

“Well then,” Hermione went on, “I suppose I should start with the Daily Prophet. Have you been reading any of it?”

“A bit,” he replied. “Nothing about Voldemort, so I’m guessing Fudge isn’t having it.”

“That’s a rather soft way of putting it, but yes, denial doesn’t even _begin_ to define what they’re doing at the moment. Have you read what the Prophet has been saying about you and Dumbledore?”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve only skimmed the headlines looking for anything to do with Voldemort.”

 _Oh, he is not going to like this_.

Hermione braced herself. “Harry . . . they’ve been claiming that you’ve both been lying.”

Harry froze in his spot, his fingers tightly wound around the trimmer in his hand. “But Cedric –”

“They’re saying Cedric's death was an accident –”

“An _accident_?” Harry said furiously. He had turned to face her. “Voldemort  _killed_ him, Hermione. I saw it with my own eyes!”

She sighed. “So long as they don’t see it with _their_ own eyes, they don’t care. Without any evidence, they’re free to believe whatever pleases them.”

“Why are you _defending_ them?” Harry snapped savagely at her, emerald eyes lit with fire. “They’re lying, or don’t you believe me anymore?”

She recoiled from him, her own anger sparking. “Are you really asking me that question?”

“You’re always on somebody else’s side,” Harry stated sharply. “You took Snape’s side, and then Dumbledore’s, and now the Ministry. Yes, I’m asking you, Hermione. I want to know if I was wrong to call you my friend.”

 _He’s just angry_ , she told herself. _He’s angry at the Ministry – at them calling him a liar – not you. He’s not really angry with you._ The thought circled her mind as a mantra to calm her, but still, relentlessly, fury rose inside her like a phoenix from its ashes. “Don’t you dare,” Hermione said, deathly quiet. “Don’t you _dare_ question my friendship. Not after I came here despite what Dumbledore told us. Not after I am the only one who’s letting you know about all of this. Not after the fact I’m _still_ here, not defending the Ministry, but defending myself – _to you!”_ She hissed at him heatedly, “Perhaps, instead of making enemies of us, you should keep your friends, your _true_ friends, close to you. Unless, of course, you forgot that we aren’t the only ones who read the Daily Prophet, and while we’re probably aren’t the only ones who think its all rubbish, there are a lot of people who don’t share that opinion.”

Harry had been staring at her in shock, the clench in his jaw relaxing ever so slowly. He had waited for her to finish, letting her words lull him, and had stayed quiet when she finally did.

There was nothing but silence between them for a few long minutes; Harry had slumped down to the stone flooring of the front garden and resumed his trimming of the bushes, though a tad more dejectedly than before, all the while Hermione turned her head away and wondered whether she should just get up and leave.

“I’m sorry,” Harry finally mumbled, refusing to look her in the eyes. “I shouldn’t have – you know. You’re my best friend, Hermione. You and Ron . . . I know that. It’s just that – well – it’s been frustrating.” He threw down his clippers. “After a month of not knowing anything, all I get to learn is that everyone’s ignoring the problem and, not just that, but they’re calling me a liar, too.”

Hermione peeked at him in the corner of her eyes and blew out a break of air. “It’s alright,” she said softly, “I know you’ve been through a lot, and the truth is I won’t understand the majority of it no matter how much I might try. But I wish you knew there's no other side I could be on apart from yours."

 

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely, nodding at her appreciatively once he had caught her gaze. “You think all the Ministry needs is evidence and they’ll believe Voldemort’s back?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, “though I imagine Dumbledore has some sort of grand plan he’s been keeping from us.”

“You reckon?”

Hermione shrugged unsurely. “There had to have been some reason why he was keeping you in the dark. He must know he needs the Ministry on his side.”

“So we just wait for Dumbledore?”

“We’ll have to,” said Hermione. “There’s not much else we can do.”

She remained on the porch for the rest of the hour as Harry finished up his chores. He had then offered to go on a walk, and so they had spent the rest of their day traipsing around the town, talking about anything and everything until they had finally sat down on the swings in the local park.

Harry kicked his feet against the ground, softly, pushing himself backwards on the swing so that he slowly swayed back and forth. He tilted his head back and looked at her in wonder. “The Druid Union . . . Hermione, that’s amazing!” 

She smiled widely. “I know, I just – I don’t understand why they would be so . . . _eager_ to have me with them.” Her feet were planted firmly on the ground, knees curling leisurely to sway on her own swings.

“You’re brilliant, that’s why!” Harry loudly declared. He shook his head amusedly. “Stop being so sceptical, Hermione. The Druids would be lucky to have you.”

Hermione snorted. “You didn’t even know who they were until I told you.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Harry said dismissively, waving his hand. “Any place you work for would be lucky, no matter who they are.”

“Thank you for saying that, Harry,” Hermione smiled. “It’s the same for you, you know.”

“Only because of this –” Harry pushed his bangs aside and gestured at his famous lightning-bolt scar, “if this wasn’t there, no one would give a donkey's about me.”

Hermione’s swaying halted. “You know that’s not true. You’re talented, Harry.” She rolled her eyes when Harry shot her a look of incredulity. “Do I need to remind you about who can do a corporeal Patronus between the both of us?” Hermione vividly remembered the first time she had seen Harry’s stag burst out of his wand in third-year; it had been magnificent, a lighthouse in the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, and it gave chase to the Dementors just as anyone would to thieves in the night.

“One charm, Hermione,” he objected, “that’s just one charm.”

“A charm most people who have graduated from Hogwarts can’t even manage to do,” Hermione pointed out. “Besides, you’ve faced You-Know-Who three times now, and you survived! You’ve already got more experience than most wizards would get in their whole lifespan. Your scar has nothing to do with what you’ve survived after the night you got it.”

Harry found himself staring at his best friend once again, surprise covering his face. “Is there any point in arguing with you?” he asked amusedly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Hermione, neatly placing her hands in her lap, “I do get things wrong sometimes.”

He snorted. “Like when?”

Hermione lowered her head, kicking her feet guiltily. “Maybe third-year, when I made McGonagall take away your Firebolt.”

“Who said you were wrong about that?”

“You did,” said Hermione, “and Ron. Now, I suppose I do, too.” 

Harry flashed her a look of remorse. “I was wrong to not talk to you.”

“No, no,” Hermione insisted, “I wasn’t fair, Harry. I should have told you before I went to McGonagall.”

“Maybe you should have,” he allowed, “but I’ve been thinking about it a lot since it happened. I assumed things about you, Hermione, the same things I assumed about you today. And I reckon _you_ assumed things about _me_ by supposing I would put my Firebolt above my own safety. We didn’t talk to each other, and you just did what you thought was best.” He ran a hand through his messy, dark hair. “We’ve learnt a good lesson from that mess, I think. Hopefully, you won’t go behind my back like that again. You can trust I’ll at least listen to you, Hermione. No matter what.”

The seriousness in his voice was striking. Hermione had always regretted what had happened in third-year; it was true she did not think Harry would have been willing to give up his Firebolt for inspection, and that is why she had gone straight to McGonagall before he had the chance to fly on the broom.

She reached into the bag she had placed by the side of the swing just as she finally noticed the sun beginning to fall beneath the trees; dusk would be on them soon. Taking out the two bottles of water she had bought from one of the corner shops she and Harry had passed on the way to the park, she offered one bottle to Harry who – after a long day of chores and basically no refreshment to assuage his thirst – accepted it gratefully and quickly uncapped the top while she opened hers at a more leisurely pace. Hermione spoke then, lifting her bottle up towards Harry in a toasting gesture, “To trust?”

Harry gave a single nod, tapping his own bottle to hers. “Trust.”

 

         

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

Thousands of miles away, Prince Nicholas – who had turned sixteen only last February – paced back and forth in frustration. The fire in the study had burnt down to embers, but the warmth of the room still made Nicholas sweat in his loose, blue tunic and black breeches. Inwardly he thought of how much he might have liked the Goblins actually having warm blood like his own. His booted steps were dull against the lavish black marble flooring in King Ragnarok’s study.

“How can I know Dumbledore is trustworthy enough to know this?” he asked.

“You cannot know,” Ragnarok grumbled from his seat on his great wooden desk. “But he is much too clever to reveal his secrets if he does not have sufficient enough reason to do so. And you must show him reason by letting him know that you will be just as important as his beloved Potter in the coming war.”

“I’ve already arranged a meeting with his Order of the Phoenix next week,” said Edwin, leaning against the wall to the side with his arms crossed. “The International Confederation of Wizards has been debating Dumbledore’s dismissal in light of the Ministry of Magic’s allegations, and I’m to be the one to inform him of their verdict. You may be able to accompany me under the pretense of being my apprentice, Your Highness.”

“I would appreciate that, Edwin,” Nicholas said gratefully. “Nevertheless, I would not like Dumbledore to believe I am reliant on him for any kind of political favour, and that is exactly what he will think if he is the first wizard I reveal myself to.”

“Put aside your pride, Nicholas,” Ragnarok chided, “it has no place in the talk of war. You should reveal yourself to him if he is not convinced, yes, but keep the rest of your mind to yourself and he will not know what to think of you.”

“You are right,” Nicholas admitted thoughtfully. “He does not need to know everything. We do not know if he will tell us about Potter’s Prophecy on his own accord, but we can be sure our Prophecy will be enough to loosen his tongue. As soon as we have acquired that information, I will only need to know how to contact Potter.”

“I doubt that will be difficult, Your Highness,” Edwin said assuredly.

Nicholas nodded. “What about –” He wavered. “Have you gotten a response from Granger?”

As the years flew and Nicholas grew through his most difficult stage of development, the bond he would share with the Lioness and all that it entailed was something he grew more and more aware of. Edwin and Jane Desmond had sat him down only two years ago and informed him about all the different feelings he may begin to have – all of which made him red-faced and highly strung, but he understood why they had thought it was their responsibility to explain those things to him. King Ragnarok – although a very caring father figure for Nicholas – was not biologically capable of understanding why the prince would need a few hours alone to slump moodily into his bed and grumble about his awful life. The Desmonds were the only people who were human and close enough to him that they were sure he would not up and run away from the information they would give him.

When he was told about the depths in which romantic relationships could be taken to, and of the implications of these depths being substantially more significant where a soul bond came into the picture, Nicholas was understandably horrified. After years of naivety, and the refined image of love he held from all the bedtime stories Jane Desmond had read to him as a young child, he could not comprehend how there were so many _other_ ways to show affection than just hugging and kissing. And he feared – quite a lot – that the soul bond might blur the lines between what is genuine and what is only the lust of interwoven fate.

Edwin had not taken long to find this fear during their many tutoring sessions; thus, he had assured Nicholas that the Druid Archives had stacks upon stacks of research on the subject of bonds, and the bond between Prince Nicholas and the Lioness would not force either party to carry out acts they did not consent to.

Over the following years, Edwin had often given Nicholas updates about the girl he had believed to be the Lioness of the Prophecy; Hermione Granger had been performing extremely well academically. This not being ignored by her Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, who had personally written to the Druid Institute as her reference, claiming her to be a _‘very powerful witch with great ability,’_ and also commending her as a wonderful student to have in any schooling environment.

Ragnarok, however, had remained to be a steady force of reasoning, continuing to maintain that Hermione Granger had not yet been confirmed as the Lioness. He urged Nicholas to remain detached from hope so long as it could only end in heartbreak. Nicholas followed that advice as best he could, despite his heart subconsciously beginning to beat faster, and a concealed piece of his soul shivered from the delight of the mentioning of her whole.

This piece had intimately spent the first years of her life on this world slumbering within the boy, merging herself with him and learning all she could, becoming familiar with the warmth of the soul that embraced her so well. Now, her sleep had ended, and she knew the time was coming closer when she would finally be reunited with her mortal body.

Edwin grinned, like he always did when mentioning Granger, though he seemed slightly happier this time. “Yes, I did get a response.” He reached into the inside pocket of his robes and pulled out a single folded piece of parchment, offering it to Nicholas.

He accepted it, unfolding the parchment with an almost indecent level of control, and was greeted by immaculate cursive writing. Nicholas turned away from Ragnarok and Edwin and their teasing looks, and read through the letter.

“She has accepted the compromise,” he finally informed. “Granger will join the Druid Union after her graduation.”

“Many of us were just thankful she agreed to something,” Edwin said amusedly. “We were beginning to think her stubborness would not concede to anything.”

 _But will I have to wait another three years to see her?_ Nicholas thought disappointedly.

Ragnarok’s thin lips abruptly spread into a roguish grin that showed all his razor-sharp teeth. “Caressing the parchment will not bring the girl any closer to you, Your Highness.”

Nicholas became aware of his hand indeed unintentionally stroking the letter with his thumb, and he flushed a bright scarlet amongst the laughter of the men in the room.

The sixteen years the foreign piece in his soul had lived without her Other had been lonely, no matter the warmth and love she felt inside of her prince’s heart. She reached out to anything that belonged to her _own_ human with an utmost desperation and felt sorrow and hope along with a sense of belonging like no other.

     Soon the connection would be solidified, her predestined duty would be complete, and she would be able to go home.


	3. A Congregation of Champions

A full week had passed since Hermione had visited Harry and she reeled from the many events that had taken place in that time.

Once Hermione had returned home, she had spent a few days in complete relaxation with her parents, trying to make up for the lost time between them. Soon enough, though, she had received an owl, and - reasonably - she had felt extremely anxious upon seeing, from the signature at the end of the parchment that the owl brought, Professor Dumbledore’s name. She feared he had written to scold her for what she had done. Her dread was for naught, however, as he had only written her an invitation to a secure location where (he had carefully mentioned) the Weasleys were also staying. Closely following this letter was another one from Ron who begged her to ‘rescue’ him from Ginny’s incessant love-sick mutterings as well as from his brothers, Fred and George, who were consistently showing off their new apparating skills.

Initially, Hermione was reluctant to leave her parents, having missed them so much for the past year she had mostly spent away from them, but she had caved when news of Harry’s situation had reached her through the loud headlines of the Daily Prophet.

In the time she had known about them, the Ministry had reached all kinds of lows in terms of their leadership, and it was blatantly obvious they were trying to beat their record with the new developments that had taken place. Apparently, the simple matter of an underage wizard using magic now warranted the sentences – notably one of the heaviest sentences just beneath the death penalty – of wand-snapping as well as expulsion from Hogwarts. There was no doubt they were only being so harsh because they needed Harry out of the picture to keep their _‘Voldemort is not back’_ message intact.

 _Do they actually believe they can get away with this?_ Hermione fumed, thinking steam might rush out of her ears if she did not calm soon. _Odious, corrupted, wastes of space, the lot of them._ Ron had told her Dumbledore had been trying to get through to the Ministry to get everything sorted out – clearly, to no end just yet – and she could only be left to hope that the Ministry came to see sense before the damage they caused becomes irreversible.

At the moment, Hermione found herself inside the home belonging to Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black. A woman who went by the name of Tonks – only because she very much hated her given name – came by Hermione’s home to pick her up. Tonks was very enthusiastic, bubbly even, and her short, spiky, vivacious pink hair seemed to reflect her personality. She had make quick friends of Hermione during their brief meeting and managed to make the younger girl laugh at least three times with her metamorphic abilities, not to mention she had accomplished the copious task of making Emma Granger calm at the notion of Hermione going away again.

Twelve Grimmauld Place appeared unassuming from the outside, just a simple townhouse built in London. On the inside, though, it was the unplottable home that belonged to the Black family. The only way Hermione had been able to finally see the house was when Tonks had slipped her a small piece of parchment that had its address written on it, and she watched in astonishment as number twelve sprung from the space between numbers eleven and thirteen.

The Fidellius Charm was truly incredible.

Sirius Black himself had eventually been the one to greet Hermione at the door. All joyous blue eyes and shaggy brown hair, almost bouncing on the tips of his toes in his excitement, Hermione remarked to herself how much like his Animagus form he really was. 

After the greetings, Sirius stepped back and welcomed Hermione into his magically-expanded home, taking the time to personally show her around. The house was rather dusty. Really, it was no wonder it had been in the family for multiple generations. Old paintings and antique vases littered the halls, and it was not at all shocking how disinterested Sirius was in all of them. Hermione wondered how a person so light and spirited, despite all he had gone through, could possibly live in a house so dark and gloomy. 

"It's only temporary, I hope," Sirius assured with a laugh when she had asked. "Harry needs me, and by living here I'll be of the most use to him. At least, that's what Remus wants me to believe." 

While the vague reply had, at first, been confounding, Hermione late came to fully understand what he meant. 

After what had been a day or two of watching people make their way into and out of the house consistently, it became obvious that the house was serving as the headquarters for an organisation Dumbledore had created to defy Voldemort.  

_The Order of the Phoenix._

Ron whispered their name with such wonder that Hermione had to press him for more. Apparently, most of the members of the Order that they had seen had been on the front lines during the first war against Voldemort. Hermione found herself shocked at the fact she had been allowed to live there for the remainder of the summer holidays.

For the past day, she watched – along with the Weasley children who were also in Grimmauld Place with her – as the various members gathered in regular intervals in the dining room. During these intervals, the doors of the dining room would be kept shut with silencing charms placed at the threshold until the meeting was over and everyone dispersed back to their usual daily routines, most of them heading back to their workplaces on the various levels of the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione’s curiosity piqued as she wondered what was being discussed inside the room. When she asked Sirius about it, he had only frowned, the expression looking most unnatural on his typically happy face.

“I can’t say, Hermione,” he told her simply, “and you probably already knew that.” Sirius smoothly changed the subject then, but what he had said was enough confirmation for Hermione; the Order of the Phoenix was probably discussing Voldemort’s movements and debating Harry’s current situation. All of the secrecy irked her, though. _Why do I have to be seventeen to know things I need to know? _

Earlier in the morning, Hermione heard some members talking about collecting Harry from the Dursleys in Surrey. A whole group had left to retrieve him and she looked forward to seeing her often-troubled best friend. Her happiness was shared by the other Weasley children, too, and Ron seemed especially relieved at Harry’s coming arrival.

They – Hermione, Ron, and Ginny – congregated in Ron’s room where they had suddenly heard a quiet commotion stirring downstairs. This was a general sign for Dumbledore entering Grimmauld Place with his usual entourage following behind him. Hermione joined Ron and Ginny in rushing out of the bedroom to the banister at the top of the stairs, Fred and George following only seconds after the three younger teenagers. Unfortunately for them, Molly Weasley had forbidden Fred and George from being Order members despite their already turning seventeen last April, and they were left to get used to the fact that all they would know about the Order meetings would be what was being discussed outside of the dining room as well as who entered and exited the room.

“Something’s wrong,” Fred Weasley observed quietly.

Hermione agreed with the assessment. Everyone appeared to be quite antsy around Dumbledore today, following behind him like a bunch of lost puppies, glancing at his back as if they were meekly waiting to be fed. It almost seemed like they were expecting an angry outburst from the old man. Hermione wondered why they were all so solemn.

No one was speaking at the banister, yet Dumbledore still tilted his head up at the bottom of the stairs and took a look at the children trying to eavesdrop on any conversations they could. His silver hair and beard implied nothing to worry about, as it flowed smoother than her own hair ever would, and cerulean eyes lay smoothly on a kind face as he gazed searchingly over all of them. Dumbledore’s stare briefly halted on Hermione, and his lips pulled up gently as if he was proud.

But the moment was gone before she could even give it any consideration as the front door opened and her attention turned to additional people entering; Tonks stumbled inside, followed by a disapproving Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody, as well as Kingsley Shacklebolt, Remus Lupin, and – the most anticipated – Harry Potter. The newcomers were carrying broomsticks and she could not help but feel impressed as she thought about how they must have flown all the way here from Surrey. Although it was a common mode of transport among wizards, Hermione knew it would have been challenging if she had been asked to do so; mostly because she detested flying and flying detested her.

Harry admired the house from where he stood, but his attention was swiftly captured by something, or _someone_ , right ahead of him, where the dining room was. His face lit up. “Sirius!” he called happily.

The sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floorboards was heard, along with a pair of rushing footsteps, as Sirius hurried to his godson. They embraced after what, she did not doubt, must have been a long summer for them both. Hermione could not be happier for Harry. The two began exchanging pleasantires, but Mrs. Weasley soon interrupted them, shooing Harry outside and ushering him upstairs. This being where he had finally noticed the people waiting for him behind the banister.

“Hey, guys,” greeted Harry with a single wave of the hand not gripping his Firebolt.

“Mate!” Ron exclaimed, his voice coated in relief. “Thank Merlin, you came. Hermione’s been going on and on about our homework, I thought she’d talk me to death!”

Harry stepped onto the landing of the first floor, laughing. “Maybe you should have done your homework, then.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “You’ve done it?”

“Well,” said Harry, “considering all the time I had this summer, yeah. I finished it all.”

The ginger boy shuffled awkwardly where he stood. “Look, mate, I’m sorry –”

“I know you are,” Harry interjected, smiling easily. “Hermione told me why you both couldn’t write. No worries.” 

Ron’s face scrunched up in confusion and he was just about to open his mouth when –

_Knock, knock, knock._

The knob on the outside of number twelve was heavy, outwardly appearing to be made out of shimmering gold when Hermione had first glimpsed at it, and it made a loud, clunky metallic sound as it struck the wood. Harry’s head swivelled around just as everybody turned to watch the door. They – with the exception of Harry who did not really know – inwardly noted how no one really ever _knocked_ on the door of the house. They always just sort of . . . walked in, since the door was mostly kept unlocked, fully confident in the reliability of the Fidellius Charm. There was no point in questioning that reliability now, however, because the person who knocked must have been expressly shown the address of the house, and if the person was seeking to invade, they would not have kindly waited for someone to open the door for them.

Dumbledore emerged from the dining room, his steps steadily bringing him to the blackwood door. Without hesitation, he grabbed the knob and rotated it, pulling it open to reveal two shadowy figures standing outside in the night.

The older – and taller – of the two appeared to be in his late forties with greying hair, and familiar brown eyes. Hermione watched curiously as he entered Grimmauld Place, trying hard to remember where she had seen him before. He wore black silk, black boots, and a long black satin coat. The recognisable symbol of a sprawled phoenix and protruding sword, the crest of the Druid Union, was embroidered on the breast of his shirt in silver thread. She did not pay this any mind, though, as she focused on his face, and let out a quiet gasp as she recognised who he was:

_Edwin._

His name was Edwin, but Hermione knew him much better as the kind man who had risked his wand to show her that magic was normal. Tears filled her eyes as all her dissipated hope of ever seeing him again burst back into her heart, the fluttering in her stomach reminding her of the feeling of a butterfly’s wings against her palm. Her vision began to blur.

“Lord Commander,” Dumbledore greeted cheerfully. He offered the man his hand to be shaken. “It has been far too long since we last saw one another.”

 _Lord Commander?_ Hermione blinked rapidly, her hope and elation quickly being placed onto a backburner as Dumbledore’s words caught up with her. _He doesn’t mean from the Druid Union, does he?_

The letter she had received from the Lord Commander of the Druid Union trying to convince her to change her mind had been signed with the name _Edwin Desmond_. There was a fleeting moment where she had made the connection, where she had really thought the Edwin she had been searching for could have been the Edwin who wrote to her, but Hermione had overlooked it as a coincidence. She reasoned there was no way the Lord Commander would have had time to comfort a little girl who was scared of being magical – among other things.

“Far too long, Albus,” Edwin smiled diplomatically – so unlike the kind smiles he had given her on the old fateful day they had met – and shook his hand. “I hope you don’t mind my apprentice being here tonight.” He gestured to the quiet boy who stood slightly behind him.

Hermione’s eyes raked over the younger of the two newcomers. He did not seem to be any older than seventeen with his slender form and black matted hair parted neatly to the side. His face was sharp, with a noticeably upturned nose, and eyes that were as true a silver as a pair of fresh sickles. Hermione narrowed her eyes curiously as she noticed what the boy was wearing. Oddly, his garb consisted of a loose white tunic under an overcoat that appeared to be made out of some sort of dark green leathery material, and his black trousers were tucked into boots of the same colour that came up to just above his ankles. What interested her the most, however, was the thick black coloured belt that he wore over his clothes and around his waist where he kept the sheath for his sword.

_Why would you need a sword if you’re magical?_

“Not at all,” said Dumbledore. “Will he be sitting in on the meeting?”

“With your permission,” Edwin replied. “I would like for him to gain some experience in handling matters of discretion.” 

“Of course, of course,” Dumbledore gestured for the two to go ahead to the dining room. "Practical observation is the best form of education, I always say."

The three strolled past the ascending staircase, but the youngest, the apprentice with the sword, paused just below her. He inclined his head and beheld the group sat upstairs, inquisitive silver sweeping across all of them, until . . .

Hermione’s eyes met his and her world flashed into blinding white light.

  

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

He found her.

Nicholas _finally_ found her.

He had read whatever he could get his hands on about soul bonds. He knew something would happen once he saw her, to indicate to them both that they were in each other’s presence, but all the various authors theories of what would happen left Nicholas confused; they were all so different from each other. Edwin had shown him pictures of Hermione Granger that he had collected from the Daily Prophet many times before – yet, he saw nothing, felt nothing but the slight stirring in his belly from the sight of a pretty girl, and he had been disheartened.

Nevertheless, Nicholas had now seen her in the flesh. The bright light that encompassed his vision soon after let him know that Edwin was right and it was Hermione Granger all along . . . she was the Lioness they had all wondered about.

The light was not painful. It was strangely warm, like the odd splatter of rain on a summer’s day, and it remained for a few seconds at most before it faded. Still, it managed to make him stumble over his feet from his blindness.

Edwin grasped his arm at the elbow and kept him steady. “Are you well?”

Nicholas shook his head to clear his rushing thoughts and straightened himself. Feeling utterly exuberant, he had almost forgotten himself and grinned at his mentor, the revelation just at the tip of his tongue, but he caught himself just in time, noticing Dumbledore’s concerned expression. “It is Granger,” he chose to say quietly, “I did not think she would be here.” Nicholas shot a meaningful stare at Edwin.

The Lord Commander’s soft smile was enough to tell Nicholas he had understood. Bare hints of joy within the crinkles beside the man’s coffee brown eyes also reminded Nicholas of Edwin’s own connection to Granger.

Dumbledore’s deep rumbling chuckle was mischievous. He obviously thought the only reason Nicholas knew about her was her notoriety in the Druid Union.

 

“She is friends with Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore explained amusedly. “I invited her so he might feel most at peace with his current predicament.” He then lowered his voice and leaned in towards Nicholas. “I believe she is also – now how do you children put it? – _unspoken for_. . . if you were wondering, young man.”

Edwin laughed outright at the Headmaster’s insinuation. “He’s very glad to hear that, I’m sure.”

Nicholas reddened. Dumbledore was correct, but he was also completely mistaken in his suggestion. According to Brown’s _Theory of a Magical Bond_ , those that are soul-bound are never _unspoken for_ from the moment they are born. 

“Perhaps we should get this over with, Albus?” Edwin prompted.

“Yes, of course,” Dumbledore said, pushing the door to the dining room and stepping inside. “Follow me, gentlemen.” 

  

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

Hermione clenched her eyes shut as what seemed like the light of a thousand burning stars filled every inch of her vision until she could see nothing but a clear, snowy, white canvas. Though her perception was blank, she was puzzled by the warmth of the radiance. She had expected painful, burning heat, but the intensity was similar to the warm caress of another human hand, and the tender stroke began at the very centre of her, spreading through to the edges of her fingers and toes like a tide of lava.

Deep within her soul, inside the bright recess of the spirit her consciousness could not reach, a little fragment of another soul that did not belong to her had stirred from his dormancy and overjoyed at the sight of his Other.

Hermione blinked rapidly as the light cleared, and she grabbed the wooden bars of the bannister as she bent forward to get a better sight of the dining room door. Her breaths were wild, just like her heartbeat, and she needed to know why she felt like she had just run a marathon. Dumbledore and Edwin had already entered through the door, and she only got the barest glimpse of Edwin’s apprentice before he, too, joined the others. Hermione cursed to herself. 

“Any idea who he is?” asked Ron.

“Dumbledore called him Lord Commander,” Ginny responded.

“Lord Commander . . .” Harry mumbled thoughtfully. “That’s what they call the leader of the Druid Union, isn’t it?”

“That’s it!” George snapped his fingers. “Lord Commander Desmond. He’s probably here to talk about what’s happening with Dumbledore on the International Confederation.”

Ron furrowed his brows. “What’s happening with him?”

Fred easily leaned onto the banister and shook his head mockingly. “Haven’t you been reading the Daily Prophet, brother mine? Fudge told the International Confederation that Dumbledore shouldn’t be Supreme Mugwump anymore, telling them Dumbledore’s too old and batty –”

“And Mum and Dad reckon he’s saying all that to get the Confederation to not believe anything Dumbledore might tell them about You-Know-Who,” George added. “Let’s be completely honest, Fudge can’t afford an international investigation.”

“We need to listen to what’s happening inside,” Hermione declared. There was no way she could find out what had just happened to her if she sat here doing nothing. What they were discussing inside might just be the key.

Fred grinned at her. “Say no more . . .”

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

The meeting room they were lead into was very snug; the dark cherry table that took up most of the space was smooth and it had the lustrous quality of well-waxed wood. A single silver chandelier hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room, and its light warmed the room against the navy blue walls. Dumbledore was situated at the head of the table while Edwin had seated himself to his side, close to the fireplace, and Nicholas chose to keep close to Edwin, sitting beside him. The rest of the seats were filled by strangers the prince had never seen before.

“They have carried through with my dismissal, I assume,” Dumbledore remarked, not showing any signs of being upset at the possible loss of high-station.

“We were unable to overrule the argument of your Ministry believing you to be too senile for your role as Supreme Mugwump,” Edwin confirmed with an apologetic nod. “However, many in the International Confederation had suggested allowing an investigation to be conducted about your discharge.”

“Is that why you decided to personally deliver this news to me?”

“One of the reasons.” Edwin subtly glanced at Nicholas. “May I ask why the Ministry of Magic would make such a rash decision, Albus? From what I have so far observed, you are far from senile.”

“I don’t believe I am senile either, Edwin,” Dumbledore smiled. “The Ministry fears the return of a very dark wizard, and this fear has blinded them.”

“Yes . . .” Edwin nodded slowly, “I had heard about Lord Voldemort.”

There were some winces and gasps that littered the room, and Nicholas almost shook his head. These people were supposed to be the resistance against this Dark Lord, yet they were afraid of his very name.

_Ridiculous._

“You must believe me when I say he has returned,” said Dumbledore gravely, looking every part the weary man as his wrinkled face would suggest. “Tensions have only been rising since the Death Eater attack during the last Quidditch World Cup in Ireland. I had companions monitoring areas Voldemort’s followers mainly gathered in during the last war and they had reported questionable magical activities. Then –” Dumbledore’s voice cracked, “Cedric Diggory’s murder. Harry Potter witnessed the return of Lord Voldemort during the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament and watched Cedric get hit by the Killing Curse himself. All evidence points towards Voldemort’s return, nevertheless Minister Fudge is not willing to take action.”

Edwin sat up with all his professional scepticism and inquired, “But can you be sure Potter was telling the truth? It is not unlike boys growing up with his kind of fame to desire more attention.”

Dumbledore’s face hardened like stone. “Harry Potter did not know of his fame until he was eleven-years-old, and even then, until even now, I do not believe he knows of its capacity. I respected his parents and have been watching the boy for them for years. He has no such greed in his character – I would vow this in front of the International Confederation itself.”

“I had to ask, Albus,” Edwin said apologetically. “It is a question the Confederation is likely to ask if I decide to extend the investigation. They do not part with their resources easily, as you know.”

The Headmaster of Hogwarts sighed and took off his half-moon spectacles, laying them on the table, and rubbing his eyes tiredly. Nicholas felt an ounce of sympathy for the old man crawling into his heart. “I understand, Lord Commander,” said Dumbledore. “Now, what else held such importance that it warranted your personal visitation?”

Edwin exchanged another fleeting glance with Nicholas. “That is a discussion I would rather have either in private or with your most trusted allies.”

“The individuals in this room are under oath to keep whatever is discussed in these meetings private,” Dumbledore told him. “They serve to destroy darkness, not add to it. I trust every one of them.”

“So am I to believe everyone in this room is aware of the contents of the Prophecy concerning Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort?”

Everyone looked taken aback at how bluntly Edwin had asked the question.

“Yes, they are,” Dumbledore replied warily.

Edwin paused for a second. “I have some information concerning that Prophecy, but, before I impart that knowledge, may I know the full wording of it?”

Nicholas gripped his hands together tighter in anticipation.

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. “You and your protégé must take a vow of secrecy, Lord Commander. I am sorry about my frankness, but these are troubling times.”

“I appreciate frankness,” Edwin responded. “Do you have a specific oath you would like us to say?”

“None specific,” said Dumbledore, “I would welcome a vow of confidentiality for the prophecy I will impart to you.”

“May I add a clause where I can discuss it with those who are aware of it?”

Dumbledore nodded. “So long as it is done in a secure environment.”

Edwin placed his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed it behind him. Nicholas followed his lead and his own seat scraped against the floor. They then pulled their wands out from their arm-holsters. Twelve inches and three-quarters of English Oak smoothly slipped into Nicholas’ hand, the Dragon Heartstring core almost singing to him in response to his touch. He made the vow he had practiced with Edwin before as confidently as he could:

“I vow on my life and magic to keep the contents of the prophecy confidential and only discuss it with the individuals who are aware of it.”

The tip of his wand briefly glowed a bright blue, an indication of his magic accepting his oath. Nicholas and Edwin sheathed their wands back into their holsters and re-joined the table.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Dumbledore said gratefully before he took a breath and released it through his nose. “This Prophecy was told by my own Divination Professor and I had been present for its first-telling. It is worded as follows: _The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches . . . Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives . . . The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies . . .”_

Silence invaded their space as Edwin lowered his head in review and Nicholas tried to keep his face as clear as possible. Dumbledore allowed them the time to contemplate.

After a minute or two, Edwin mentioned, “This sheds some light on some things myself and some others have been speculating about.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Nicholas prepared himself. This would be the first time anyone outside of the Goblins and the Desmonds would know about their Prophecy. This would be the first time anyone else would know about the return of the Avalonian Throne. This would be the first time anyone else would know about him, and his part in the coming war.

“I speak with all confidence, Albus, and with your own assurance of confidentiality . . .” Edwin paused, glancing at Nicholas as though he was seeking permission. When Nicholas faintly nodded his consent, Edwin revealed, “Your Prophecy is not the only Prophecy which mentions Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort as two of the main subjects.”

The people around them gasped, muttering to each other in disbelief. Dumbledore himself had widened his eyes, almost comically, but regained his composure soon enough, raising his hand to stop the chattering that had begun. “Are you certain?”

“Utterly,” Edwin affirmed. “We know Seers work in a network and only get hints of the future in the form of a series of images and words they receive randomly. Sometimes, it is possible for a specific part of the network – which shows a specific part of the future – to be accessed by more than one Seer. In these cases, one Seer may be able to see far more than another can, as is the case with the Prophecy I knew before I came here.”

Dumbledore slowly moved his head up and down. “May I hear that Prophecy?”

Edwin nodded and then recited, _“From the rage of war, the Prince, the Lioness, and the Saviour arise as the champions over darkness . . . They shall unite those isolated, they shall command those lost, and they shall lift Albion from the ashes of their sorrows . . . The Lioness will be sovereign in magic, and she shall stand beside the Prince who will be King of Wizards . . . Two sides of the same coin, their souls bound by fate, they will be the very power of the Saviour marked as the Dark Lord’s equal . . . Born in the fires of conflict, the champions are promised . . . The age of unity for all creatures looms . . . The Age of Albion is coming . . . The Age of Albion is coming . . .”_

The voices of the strangers around him began to clamber about, singing their opinions as loudly as they could with no care of how wild they may have looked. Nicholas closed his eyes for a second, and breathed through his nose.

A very large man with dark skin and brown eyes, sitting on the far right end of the table, argued, “We haven’t had a king in hundreds of years, does this prophecy mean to tell us that we will have one now?”

Another man, this one with a curious fake eye that swiveled all directions as if he was observing more than just the physical world, agreed with the other. “There has been no talk of a prince in the Ministry, Dumbledore. We would have known about a new king from the very second he was born.”

 _Yes, you would have_ , Nicholas thought resentfully,  _if you had not betrayed his family five hundred years ago._

“Can this prophecy be trusted, Professor Dumbledore?” the first man asked.

“I assure you,” Edwin said confidently, “while I cannot personally disclose any more information about him, I have the authority to tell you that he has been found. Potter is – quite obviously seen from your prophecy – the Saviour, while the Lioness was recently found due to her bond with the Prince. What I mean to say is this prophecy is just as valid as the one you are protecting.”

The man with the swiveling eye frowned. “Then why has it been kept from us?”

"The security of the prince was a priority,” Edwin stated. “It had been decided a long time ago that the prince will give very little contribution to the prophecy unless certain events occurred – such as the bonding with Lioness, or the return of the Dark Lord – and it could no longer be ignored. He waited, just as you did for your own prophecy, and when the claims of the Dark Lord’s return surfaced, his preparations for ascension began.”

Dumbledore’s great white eyebrows were furrowed and his sight remained on his hands that were interlocked on top of the table in front of him. “I had assumed that the _power he knows not_ was a reference to something I know he never had in his life – love – and though I was not right, I was not completely wrong either. Soul bonds are uncommon, yet they are extraordinary, so it is not surprising that they are the joint power that can help destroy Voldemort.” He looked up to the Lord Commander. “If I could, I should like to know where they are.”

Before Edwin could say anything, Nicholas had taken a deep breath, relishing the last of the shroud that kept him from the wizarding world, and ripped it from him in one fell swoop. “They are both here,” he declared, his face clear as still water.

Dumbledore’s head jerked to him so fast that he feared the old man could have snapped it in his feebleness. The Headmaster’s eyes roamed Nicholas, scanning him, visibly taking in all the information they possibly could, and also, simultaneously, evaluating the knowledge he had already gathered. “You?” He faltered, his mouth opening and closing slowly. Nicholas thought it a rather amusing impression of a fish.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Edwin said, his voice ringing around the room from the quiet that had descended upon it, “may I introduce Prince Nicholas of the Royal House of Westerly.”

Dumbledore gave a sparse glimpse to Edwin before returning his stare to Nicholas, as searching as before, but then his eyes widened as if he had just made sense of more of the evidence he had collected in his mental analysis. “Miss. Granger is the Lioness. You saw her, that is why you had stumbled outside. And you –” Dumbledore turned his accusing face to Edwin, “you always knew her destiny, which is why you had wanted her for your institute.”

Edwin frowned. “I never knew for certain, Dumbledore, but I’ll admit that I thought it highly likely. However, I wanted Miss. Granger at the Druid Institute out of admiration for her raw talent in knowledgeability as well as another more personal reason.”

On the other side of the table, at the other head that was directly opposite Dumbledore, it was hard not to recognise the face of the notorious Sirius Black. His heavy, black hair was nearly as shaggy as it had been in his ‘wanted’ posters, but the blue eyes were less wild . . . they were controlled, and appeared to narrow in suspicion. “What personal reason?”

“I apologise,” said Edwin remorsefully. “I cannot say.”

“Let me be clear, Lord Commander,” Sirius Black spoke not _too_ harshly, “Hermione Granger is in my home, and is therefore under my protection." There was a significance in the sharp way Black stared at Edwin, but - for the life of him - Nicholas could not figure out what it was.

"You dishonour me, Lord Black,” Edwin responded blankly.

“And I shall continue to dishonour you until I know what you mean by _personal_.”

Edwin sighed, and Nicholas knew that Sirius Black had won. “I met Hermione a long time ago, I believe she was only five-years-old at the time, and she had been through a very distressing ordeal that I beg you do not make me recount, for her sake . . .”

Black frowned but nodded slowly.

“Hermione had experienced a great bout of accidental magic that I had been able to witness. To my knowledge, this was her first bout, and understandably, her distress grew at the sight of her magic, which only made the magic worse. In all my years, I had never seen such power in a child, nor such sadness. I comforted her, brought her back to her home even, and – and I grew attached to her.” Edwin took a breath, admitting, “I have never had children, nor will I ever be able to, but she . . . her little hand held onto mine so tightly that I felt that perhaps, just maybe . . .”

He shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. “Before I dropped her off at her doorstep, I promised her that when the time came, she could come to a place where she would belong, a place where I would always . . . protect her. That is what I meant by personal, my lord.”

Sirius Black sank back into his seat, his arms crossing over his chest, and his apologies were formal, respectable, and not the least bit regretful.

“As can be expected, I had known about Hermione Granger from Edwin for years,” Nicholas spoke, “but, as you already said, Professor Dumbledore, the bond was only confirmed today when I saw her in person.”

Dumbledore inclined his head, nodding. “Am I right in the assumption that you are the same Nicholas Westerly that sent his decline with his acceptance letter to Hogwarts six years ago, Your Highness?”

“I was obligated to do so,” said Nicholas. “Hogwarts could not offer me the vast and focused education I needed."

 

“So you received this education at the Druid Institute?”

“Partially, once I had turned eleven,” Nicholas answered. “Mostly, I was given a series of private instructors for each subject I have studied since it was found that I was the heir.”

“And how did you find out you are the heir?” Dumbledore asked curiously.

Nicholas chose his next words wisely. He did not want his affiliation with the Goblins to be known just yet. “I visited Gringotts with my guardian when I was very young, the Goblins there had confronted me with their suspicions not long after I entered. They presented me with a book . . . the _Annales Regum et Reginarum Maleficus_ , and they told me it was given to their king by the last Queen of Avalon. Inside, the names of all of her descendants were written, along with the dates of their births and deaths. All other entries apart from my own were stated to be non-magical – which is why it declared me the heir.”

Dumbledore stroked his long, flowing white beard. “I have heard of this book,” he said thoughtfully. “I expect Queen Eleanora gave the Goblin King the _Annales_ for safekeeping, considering the treacherous events that took place before and after her death. Have the Gringotts Personnel informed you of your rights as a sole royal heir?”

“Yes,” Nicholas replied. “It is my understanding that I am able to claim the throne at this very moment, but I have chosen to be coroneted after my seventeenth birthday next February.”

“A wise choice,” Dumbledore praised. “I would like to offer any of my aid to you, Your Highness. You have a very rocky journey ahead of you, but the Order of the Phoenix are at your service.” He leaned forward and offered Nicholas his hand to shake.

Nicholas took the hand. It was rougher than he had expected, but the grip was firm, so secure in its strength that the prince was surprised. _He is much stronger than he looks_ , Nicholas thought idly. “That is kind of you, Professor Dumbledore,” he acknowledged, “though I only have one request right now.”

“Anything, Your Highness.”

“I should like to have a private audience with Potter and Granger,” said Nicholas. He eyed Sirius Black and added as an afterthought, “with their parents or guardians where possible.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows twitched slightly and he appeared hesitant, but he eventually agreed, his attention turning to a homely ginger woman sitting towards the middle of the table, very near to Nicholas. “Molly, if you will.”

The woman – Molly – nodded silently. She scooted her chair back, the sound of its scraping nearly deafening in the quiet of the room, and shuffled out of the door, presumably to fetch the two people Nicholas had asked for. 

Nicholas lazily tapped his fingers on the table. “I do believe I asked for a _private_ audience, Professor Dumbledore.”

“Yes, of course,” Dumbledore responded as though he had needed the reminder. He addressed everyone, “Prince Nicholas has made a command.”

That was all that was required for the rest of the Order of the Phoenix to rise and quickly leave the room, each glancing towards Nicholas many times and muttering to one another. Nicholas’ chest swelled slightly. He had never had this affect on anyone before.

As the sounds of the small crowd faded, only one remained, and Edwin took advantage of this as soon as he had the chance.

“Lord Black?” Edwin called for his attention.

Sirius Black knitted his eyebrows together. “Yes, Lord Commander?”

“Were you given any sort of trial before your imprisonment?”

A look of surprise coated the scruffy man’s face. He answered anyway, “No.”

Edwin nodded slowly, his eyes downcast in thought. “Thank you.”

Once again, silence reigned supreme, yet Nicholas still heard a sort of electricity, like a static crackling through the hush. The air was alive with excitement, and a lot of anxiousness, some of which, he knew, were his own nerves brought to life at the thought of meeting _her_ , but the rest of the nervous energy belonged to Edwin. His back was straight, his brown eyes darting to and from the door, and the prince could only wonder what he must have been thinking.

  

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

Crookshanks had chewed up Fred’s plan and spat it back out – quite literally. The Extendable Ears that he had invented alongside his brother, George, were long, flesh-coloured, pieces of string that could be pushed under a door to hear what was happening on the other side. Unfortunately, Crookshanks had thought that the strings were a new toy for him, and so he began to play with them as he would any of his other toys. George had been quite angry (since Mrs. Weasley had been going around and binning any of the Extendable Ears she found and the ones currently in her cat’s mouth were the last two Fred and George had left) and, as a result, Hermione gave both Fred and George a few galleons as compensation for the damages inflicted.

When there did not appear to be any other way to listen into the meeting, and after they declared that these meetings usually went on for hours, Fred and George strolled back into their own bedroom. Ginny soon followed their lead, mentioning that she was going to write to her friends, leaving only Hermione, Ron, and Harry. The trio sat on the edge of the stairs, side by side, waiting patiently – or, in the case of Ron, grumbling about what the _hell_ the Order could possibly be talking about – as they watched the door of the dining room. Aside from the odd comment here and there, Ron had ultimately quietened down, and Hermione had stayed utterly silent since the small argument with Fred and George. Harry seemed to notice this, yet did not comment on it, though it seemed like he wanted to.

“The Lord Commander . . .” Hermione abruptly said, “I know him.”

Harry and Ron’s heads snapped to the girl.

“What?” Harry questioned confusedly.

“Lord Commander Desmond,” she elaborated, “I recognise him. I’d seen him before, when I was younger.”

“You really know him?” asked Ron.

Hermione hesitated. “Well, I wouldn’t say I _know_ him exactly, but he took care of me the first time I had accidental magic.”

The looks on their faces begged her to explain.

“I was – I was really sad,” she continued, choosing to not mention why she was so upset, “I didn’t even notice what was happening around me until he got there. When I finally saw . . . I panicked. Of course I did. It wasn’t normal.” Her eyes shone with tears, and the boys looked at each other uncomfortably, never really knowing what to do when she cried. “I was so scared. The magic got so much worse, but he didn’t fear me as I thought he would have. Even when the winds around me managed to knock him off his feet, he didn’t back away . . . he was kind, and he showed me that magic was _normal_ , and that I wasn’t alone. He could have left me there, but he didn’t . . . he told me his name, and he took me home. I never thanked him.”

“Is that why you wanted to know what was happening inside that room?” Harry asked. “You wanted to thank him?”

Hermione swiped at her eyes, though no tears had fallen, and nodded with a smile. “I’ve been looking for him for so long now, since the day I went to Diagon Alley for the first time. I wanted him to know I appreciate what he did. That’s the least he deserves.” She looked back at the door leading to the room she knew he was in. “I just hope he remembers me.”

At that moment, the door creaked open, and the trio on the stairs fell silent, leaning forwards slightly to try and see who was coming out. They watched curiously as Mrs. Weasley stepped out and scuffled her way to the bottom of the stairs. She glimpsed up and noticed the three of them, stopping her from climbing. “Come along, dears,” she said, “Professor Dumbledore asked for you.”

Hermione flashed Ron and Harry a look of befuddlement – a look that was reflected back to her from them both – but they all still rose. Just as they began to descend the stairs, however, Mrs. Weasley added, “Only Harry and Hermione, Ron.” 

Ron’s face reddened slightly and he stared at his friends slightly open-mouthed, in silence, like he was waiting for them to say something.

“We'll tell you everything,” Hermione assured, descending the stairs.

"You know we will," Harry grinned, following just a step behind Hermione.

Ron smiled hesitantly. “Right.”

As they walked past the last step, and Ron’s clumpy feet tapped along the landing above them as he went back to his bedroom, members of the Order of the Phoenix started to pour out of the dining room. They were – to Harry and Hermione’s immense disappointment – heading straight to the front door, making it very apparent that the meeting was over.

 _But where’s Edwin?_ Hermione started to breathe just that little bit faster as she pressed herself to the side of the narrow hallway so that everyone heading to the front door would have enough space to pass. She stood on tips of her toes, the pressure of her body weight on her feet making it difficult to keep the position for long, but the urge to ensure that Edwin was not one of the people leaving the dining room was powerful enough to lend her the strength she needed. Releasing a sigh of relief as the last of the Order members to leave had passed by, Hermione was glad to see that Edwin had not been one of them. And that could only mean . . .

 _He’s inside_ , Hermione thought excitedly. _And if he’s inside, maybe the apprentice is, too. Maybe he’ll know what happened to me._

Curiously, the Order of the Phoenix had been giving Harry and Hermione glimpses of either sympathy or pity. No doubt they knew something that Harry and Hermione did not. _Do they know about the light I saw?_ Hermione questioned herself. She glanced back at Mrs. Weasley. The woman seemed to be a little more frazzled than usual, and the comforting motherly smile she often threw at all the children under her roof was . . . wrong. It did not take her long to realise that Mrs. Weasley’s eyes no longer held the warmth they did this morning; warm chocolate had gone stale and her lips did not turn up as far as they could have, only lifting halfway before stopping.

Harry pulled at Hermione’s sleeve and pulled her along to the dining room door. He lowered his hand to the knob to turn it, but before he could, the knob turned for him and the door pulled backward to reveal Professor Dumbledore. The older man appeared to be the final person to come out, closing the door behind him. So deep in thought, he did not even notice Harry.

“Sir?” Harry said not too loudly as Dumbledore nearly walked past them without addressing them at all. “Didn’t you want to see us?”

Dumbledore lifted his head and shook his head. “The people who wish to talk to you are inside, my boy. They asked to do so in private.” He nodded towards the door. “Don’t keep them waiting.”  With that, the Headmaster of Hogwarts strolled away with his arms folded behind him, leading Mrs. Weasley away while asking her casually, “Molly, have you bought your children their school supplies, yet?”

Harry watched Dumbledore’s retreating back, his face scrunched up. Finally shaking his head, he swivelled his head back towards the dining room. “I didn’t see Sirius coming out, did you?”

“No,” Hermione replied simply.

He gripped the knob of the door and twisted his hand to unlatch it, proceeding inside with Hermione accompanying him.

Instantly, Harry’s attention locked onto his godfather, but Hermione’s focused solely on the Lord Commander of the Druid Union who had snapped his head round and caught her eyes as soon as she entered.

Edwin had certainly grown a lot older from the last time she had seen him almost eleven years ago. Streaks of grey lined the sides of his hair and wrinkles had begun to do their work on wilting his sharp features. A nicely trimmed goatee sat around his chin handsomely and it only seemed to make him look more formidable. For a moment, Hermione glanced down at his garb once again, and recalled how she had long ago thought he was some kind of superhero with his black cloak that looked very much like a cape at the age of five.

Slowly, Edwin pushed his chair back and rose, the sound of wood scratching against wood becoming predominant, and he never for a single second took his eyes off of her.

_Maybe he does remember._

“Edwin?” Hermione said quietly, the name holding a dozen questions.

One side of his lip lifted to a grin and he released the smallest of laughs, no less full of joy than a full belly laugh, and his brown eyes brightened considerably as he beheld her. “You have truly grown, Hermione Jean,” he told her happily.

A few moments she stood still, not knowing what to do, nor what to say. After all this time, looking for him to thank him, she had not exactly worked out how she would do it. When she tried opening her mouth to speak, she finally realised that perhaps words just were not enough.

Hermione rushed around the large dining table towards him, and she threw her arms around his waist when she reached him. He was still much taller than she was, and as her arms wound around him, she remembered how she had embraced him just the same when he had grown a little yellow rose in the middle of his palm to prove that he was magic . . . just like her.

The embrace had caught Edwin by surprise, but he only took a few moments before his arms enveloped her in return.

“Thank you,” Hermione murmured. “You were there when I most needed someone.”

Edwin’s hold tightened for a bare second. Then, he then loosened his grasp on her. Hermione took this as her cue to step back, letting her arms fall to her side as she tilted her head up and smiled at the man who had protected her for no reason but kindness.

“I hadn’t been able to keep my promise,” he said apologetically.

“That’s not your fault,” Hermione responded sheepishly. “I didn’t let you keep it. But . . .” she shook her head in confusion, “the letter you sent about the last offer . . . why didn’t you just tell me it was you?”

Edwin shuffled slightly. “While I admit it was at my recommendation that you received a letter from the Druid Institution before you had even started your first-year at Hogwarts, I didn’t want you to think that any of the other offers were given due to anything other than your own talents."

Hermione tilted her head and cast him a look of doubt. “I don’t think I’m worth a scholarship for the Institute, Edwin.”

“Trust me,” said Edwin with a grin, “the Druid Institute’s Admissions Team pulled hair from their heads for years trying to solve your enigma. They had been the ones to draw up a finance plan for your scholarship and present it to me for my approval as a last ditch effort to get you to attend.”

“Could you tell them I’m really sorry?” Hermione said guiltily. She glimpsed at Harry who was talking with Sirius in the other corner of the room. “I just . . . my friends need me, and I need them.”

Edwin followed her line of sight and hummed in understanding. “I suppose I can’t blame you for that,” he said quietly, “not when I would have done the same.”

Hermione smiled hopefully. “You think I made the right decision?”

“I think you made the best decision considering your circumstances.” He motioned for her to sit down on the seat next to him that was not occupied by the apprentice she finally noticed. His ebony hair was still parted neatly to the side and the aristocratic upturn of his nose was far more evident at this distance. He did not lift his eyes to her, too busy awkwardly fidgeting with his fingers, and Hermione inwardly snarled. _Look at me_ , she urged him silently, wanting to see if the light would shine again. Across the long table, Harry and Sirius had also seated themselves and waited patiently as Hermione and Edwin finished their conversation.

“So . . .” Hermione looked at everyone once again and ultimately landed her eyes back on Edwin. “Why were Harry and I called here?”

“Ah –” Edwin directed his attention to his apprentice next to him, “that, I can’t tell you. I wasn’t the one who requested to speak to you both.”

She raised both her eyebrows and, along with everyone else in the room, returned her gaze to the boy whose mouth turned down into a scowl that he threw at Edwin.

“I – I do not really know how to start . . .” he admitted, his voice rich and smooth as new silk. The vibrations of it in the air strangely made her chest stir.

Sirius must have felt sympathy for the boy and he grinned. “Perhaps start with your name, Your –”

“Yes, of course,” the boy hastily interrupted. He stood, reaching his hand across the table and offering it to Harry whilst keeping his other hand on the table to help balance him. “My name is Nicholas . . . Nicholas of – uh – Nicholas Westerly.”

Harry regarded the hand in bemusement, but eventually took it and introduced himself, “I’m Harry – Harry Potter.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Nicholas said, taking his hand away and then bringing it in front of Hermione. Again, his eyes locked onto hers and Hermione half expected the world to bright again, but everything remained the same – except for her increasingly rapid beating heart – and she wondered whether she had imagined the light in the first place.

She gripped his hand. “I’m Hermione . . . Granger . . .” Any more words she could have said left her as she gazed into silver and found there to be no other colour around his irises. No blue, no brown, just the shade of newly-forged steel - sharp and radiant. A burning sensation, not unlike the sort you would get when you flitted your hand over a burning candle for a little too long, began in the centre of her palm. Hermione shook herself out of her daze and gasped as the heat grew, quickly withdrawing her hand from his and gripping it to her chest. She rubbed the singed palm and finally looked at it. The scalding had left solid red markings around her hand in the shape of Nicholas’ fingers, but the sudden glow that encompassed it ate away at the injury, leaving nothing behind except the soft, creamy skin she had begun with.

Infuriatingly, Nicholas did not seem too surprised at the event as she watched him casually turning his hand over and holding it up to his face in scrutiny.

“What’s going on?” Hermione demanded loudly.  

Nicholas winced at her tone, his shoulders tensing up. “I will explain everything,” he assured her, “but first I would like to ask what you know of wizarding royalty . . .”

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

  

“I didn’t know wizards _had_ royalty,” said Harry Potter.

Nicholas sighed. “The line of succession had been dormant for almost five hundred years,” he told him. “Time has allowed people to forget.”

“Dormant?” Harry asked confusedly.

He was about to clarify, but Hermione Granger had managed to beat him to the punch.

“From what I’ve read,” she began, still clutching her hand, “the royalty here had to have a direct connection to the crown by blood and by magic to be eligible to inherit. The line is dormant because the last Queen only had squibs as children, and their children had also been squibs, and so on.”

Nicholas smiled, letting his eyes roam her features; rather wild brown tresses framed the heart-shaped face that carried caramel eyes - the brightest of all the coppers he had seen in his short life.

Harry nodded. “Right.” He paused. “What’s that got to do with what’s happening to your hands?”

“Nothing,” Nicholas replied. “But this is something you need to know.”

“Why?” asked Hermione.

“Because an heir had been born some time ago,” said Edwin, “and he is entitled to the throne through both blood and magic.”

 _And he had decided, long ago, to tell his bonded who he was from the very beginning so there is no misunderstanding_ , Nicholas added inside his head.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “We’re going to have a king?”

“Yes.” Nicholas carefully regarded her, gaging her reaction.

Funnily enough, Hermione’s head swiftly swerved round to sternly stare straight at Harry. Her gaze was firm, as though she was silently telling him to stay still if he knew what was good for him. “Don’t tell me Harry’s the heir.”

Apprehension attacked the boy’s face almost immediately, and Nicholas could not help but gain a chuckle at his expense. “No, Harry is not the heir,” Nicholas assured, inclining his head as he decided that bluntness would be best, “I am.”

Their mouths dropped, shocked.

“But . . . you’re our age,” Harry argued.

“Actually, I believe I am a year older than you.”

“Y-Your Highness,” Hermione stuttered. “I’m sorry, but . . . why tell _us_ this?”

He took a deep breath, taking a good long look at her. Those eyes, those bronzed eyes . . . they should have looked exactly like Edwin’s brown eyes, but they did not. Edwin’s were much darker, and Nicholas wondered whether the distinction lied in their significant age differences. After all, where Hermione was young and, like Nicholas, had much more to see in the world, Edwin was forty-five years of age and had spent fifteen of those years being Lord Commander of the Druid Union. He had been resolving wars when Nicholas had merely been learning to walk.

 _There is innocence in her_ , he realised, _and I suppose there is innocence in me, too._ Suddenly, it felt as if his stomach was full of eels. _Perhaps this is how Ragnarok felt before he told me. Perhaps this is how he always feels._

At times, Nicholas remembered sensing eyes on his back as he sat on his desk at home, studying the texts left to him by his tutors. He would turn around only to see Ragnarok by the door, watching him, a sliver of guilt marring his posture before he reprimanded the prince:

 _“A king never takes breaks,”_ he would tell him. _“Return to your studies.”_

It almost seemed like King Ragnarok battled with himself everyday since the day he told Nicholas about the Goblin Prophecy. Nicholas never thought he would understand, not until he saw Hermione and Harry and knew in that moment that their dreams, their happiness, their _innocence_ would become ash once they learned this knowledge . . . just as his own had burnt to dust and scattered to the winds six years ago.

Hermione Granger and Harry Potter would be forced into the roles of soldiers, revolutionaries, without the age or experience to be prepared for the weight of their duty. And it fell to Nicholas to give them the burden. He understood Ragnarok much better now; the king’s guilt was silent and mostly unexpressed, but Nicholas began to suffer the effects of its ruthlessness as it clawed at his chest as he considered his words. _Merlin, help me_ , Nicholas prayed, _Merlin . . . help **them**._

“How much do you know about prophecies?”

“A prophecy is a prediction of the future made by a seer,” Hermione recited mechanically. “It is usually kept in a small spherical object made out of glass which is then kept in the Hall of Prophesies within the Department of Mysteries.”

“Exactly that.” Nicholas nodded at Edwin who took his cue and pulled one of the spherical objects Hermione had just mentioned out of his pocket, handing it over to him. The smoky mist inside the sphere swirled endlessly as Nicholas motioned for Harry to come closer to him and Hermione.

Once Harry had seated himself next to Hermione, Nicholas placed the sphere on the table, keeping his hand on either side of it so that it would not roll away. “This contains two prophecies that were made about sixteen to seventeen years ago by two different Seers,” he explained. “One involves all three of us, and it was given to us by the Goblin Nation. The other involves only Harry and the Dark Lord, Voldemort, and we had heard it from Professor Dumbledore during our meeting with the Order of the Phoenix.”

Nicholas wished he could have told them how Dumbledore had asked him and Edwin to keep his prophecy a secret with a vow and they had managed to swindle a way around their words to find a loophole; after all, if they could not _tell_ anyone the contents of the prophecy, then perhaps they could just _show_ them. It would have been an unsophisticated way of impressing them, but it would have indeed been a satisfying urge to fulfil. Nevertheless, the impulse was ignored as he directed them, “Place your hands on either side and you should enter a trance where both prophecies will be revealed to you.”

Harry and Hermione looked unsure for a moment, but soon Harry became the one to take the leap of faith. He placed his hand on the right side of the sphere, and Hermione followed his lead, placing her own hand on the left. Their eyes instantly misted over.

Nicholas grimaced, the eels in his stomach writhing more violently now. He glanced over at Edwin who appeared just as upset as what they had deemed necessary for the coming war and the irony of the situation was not lost on him; the first act of the revolution to bring peace would be to destroy innocence, corrupt purity, and create soldiers out of children. Nicholas did not know how they would react to all of it, but he knew they would not blame him for telling them – no more than he blamed Ragnarok. They would reason that they would have found out sooner or later. Better that it came from him who was supposed to be their ally. 

Minutes passed until the mist over their eyes finally fell and they were released from their trance. Hermione’s chest heaved as she took deep, rapid breaths, as if she was snatching for the barest hint of air before she was shoved underwater again. All the while, Harry’s frown was deep, and a line was drawn on his brow as he looked straight ahead with eyes that were unseeing. Nicholas remained quiet, but when he heard Hermione’s sobs his mouth fell open in shock. She covered her mouth, the sound of her cries becoming muffled, and a tear rolled down her cheek as she leaned over to where Harry was sitting, facing him, and placing the side of her face on his shoulder.

“I – I’m so – so sorry,” Hermione wept, her quivering voice becoming muffled by his shoulder. “What do we do? Oh, God, what are we . . . I don’t know what to do.”

Harry glanced down at his lap, his face a pure mask of misery, before he swallowed and turned to lean his own head onto the shoulder of his best friend. His jaw was clenching and unclenching, but Nicholas could clearly see two shining emerald eyes, nearly on the brink of drowning. _I do not blame him_ , Nicholas supposed. _Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives_ , _that is what Dumbledore’s prophecy declared. All these years I had thought Albion’s victory was certain . . . but now our victory depends on the survival of the Saviour – of Harry Potter – and if we lose him, we lose everything._

Sirius Black’s chair scraped back and he shuffled over to the two teenagers, becoming level with both of them once he had reached them. He grasped both of their shoulders silently as some gesture of comfort. His gaunt face was scrunched in concern for them.

Harry eventually lifted his face from Hermione’s shoulder, an echo of his sadness seen in the wet patch left on her shirt and his blotchy face. He looked directly at Nicholas. “You’re the Prince of the Prophecy.”

It was not a question, but the prince nodded anyway.

“And am I the Saviour?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Nicholas confirmed.

Hermione’s head then slowly rose from Harry’s shoulder. Tear stained cheeks puffy and flushed, still she gaped at the prince with trepidation and sudden awareness.

“You are the Lioness,” Nicholas told her, his voice slightly shaky.

“We –” Her voice broke in her hesitation, or perhaps her fear. “We’re going to . . . We’re soul-bound?”

He gave a single reluctant nod in reply, and instantly regretted it as the look of distress in her eyes intensified.

“And the light when I saw you . . . the burning when we shook hands . . .” She was connecting the dots and realising his truth.

“It was the bond’s way of beginning to solidify,” Nicholas explained. “An excess amount of magic usually causes the energy to convert to heat or light so that it may be easily removed from the body.”

Hermione’s breathing only became more frantic as her recoil from him deepened. Nicholas was on edge, fearing the girl would force her heart into arrest. Her uneasy gasps throbbed in his mind, and it somehow discomforted him physically.

“A soul bond.” Hermione shook her head. “I can’t – I can’t have a soul bond.”

Nicholas mutely pleaded with Edwin for assistance, knowing that the Lord Commander had far more experience in calming the girl than he did. His silent cry for help did not fall on deaf ears.

“Hermione,” Edwin gently called. “Hermione, look at me.”

Her wide eyes focused on him.

“Nicholas was as fearful as you are now when he learned of the bond. If you are anything like the reports said, you are probably frightened about what this could mean in relation to your mindful choices. I promise you on everything I have, Hermione Jean, your ability to choose what you desire will not be corrupted by this bond. It will hold no power over your mind or body, and it will not have the influence you to do anything unwillingly as most fictions depict.”

The prince appreciated these words; they made him feel somewhat better, knowing that she was only having such a reaction because of the same fear that gripped him when he had first learned what a bond really was.

“How – How do you know?” she questioned apprehensively.

“Nicholas asked me long ago to find him all the information on soul bonds I could from the Druid Archives. Fortunately for him, I found hundreds of records and accounts of the many soul bonds throughout time. If you so wish, I could borrow some of these for you to read.”

Hermione nodded shakily, her trembling remaining despite the comfort.

“I – I know you will want a lot of answers,” said Nicholas nervously, “and I am willing to provide them. I have lived my life in isolation from wizards. There are only two others, the Lord Commander and his wife, that I can claim to properly know. I swear to you, I am as uncertain as you are. All I know is I do not wish to cause you any harm.”

She visibly reached for Harry’s hand as she responded, “I’m sorry, Your High-”

“Nicholas,” he hurriedly corrected.

“ _Prince_ Nicholas,” Hermione still said, “I’m sorry, but we don’t know each other. And this bond . . . it implies that we – we’re going to be . . .”

“I understand,” Nicholas assured. “I am well aware of how much we do not know about each other. This bond – this connection – although not chosen by either of us, is present nonetheless. You may feel that your choice of partner has been – uh . . .” he shifted uncomfortably as he searched for a word that did not seem too hideous – regrettably, he failed. “That it has been stolen from you, but I am more than willing to make up for that.” The last words were no sooner out of his mouth than the flinch that recoiled her further away from him. Nicholas quickly continued, “What I mean to say is we may not have the capability for preference – as it was taken away from us before we were even born – but that does not mean we have to give up our ability to decide how we proceed from here.”

There was a shift somewhere in the air. Hermione blinked at him before narrowing her eyes in suspicion, her tremors lessened and Nicholas felt an inch of delight that he was getting through to her, regardless of her trepidation. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Nicholas leaned back into his chair, his posture relaxing. Ragnarok taught him a lot about political situations; how the smallest of gestures could mean the difference between someone being comfortable around you, or absolutely frightened. This situation may not have been even vaguely political to him, he still hoped the movement would be able to reduce the tension that had built in the room. “Tell me,” he began, “is it true that all friendships begin with nothing but the encounter of two strangers with something in common?”

Her face was struck by surprise. “I suppose,” she admitted.

“You said that we do not know each other and I agreed,” Nicholas stated. “We have the choice now to learn – by means of friendship – everything we want to know. This war is one that we all are going to _have_ to fight together if we intend to defeat Lord Voldemort, and that is what we have in common. I am your ally by prophetic interference, yet I wish to be your friend of my own accord. I do not wish to only discuss battle plans with you, and I hope you do not either.”

When Hermione still seemed somewhat unsure, Nicholas attempted to persuade her. “If you befriend me and decide that I am to remain just that – your _friend_ – I will accept and respect this as your decision – your _choice_. You must remember, Hermione . . . I know you as much as you know me, and if I asked for anything more than friendship with you, I would have been a fool.” _An eager fool_ , he thought, eyeing her glistening pink lips, though not ignoring the frown upon them.

“Hermione,” Edwin said, gaining her attention, “I have known Nicholas since he was only two years old. He has been planning what to say to his soul mate for the last six years –”

“ _Lord Commander_ ,” Nicholas warned, flushing a bright red.

“It is the truth, Your Highness. You have spent hours and hours thinking about how you should approach her.” Edwin took hold of one of Hermione’s hands. “You’re a clever girl, Hermione. You know he needn’t have done that. He’s a bloody prince and he could have been poncey enough to believe that you were blessed to be his soul mate.”

“What are you saying, then?” Hermione asked angrily. “That I should be _grateful?”_

“No,” he quickly responded. “I’m saying that he has felt the fear you’re feeling right now. He had felt it for _years_ until I managed to gather all the records in the Archives. I’m saying he _understands_ you.”

“I do not want you to feel inclined to me in any way,” Nicholas told her cautiously. “Reading all those records, I found that the bond was only dangerous when those who were bonded were distanced from each other; whether that was physically, mentally, or emotionally, and whether that was for days, months, or years, depended on each individual case. Hermione Granger, I ask you for the peace of companionship because I really believe it would ensure that we are not constantly daunted away from our life's ambitions due to something neither of us have any control over."

Although he did not beg her outright, he could feel his eyebrows scrunch together as his eyes beseeched her to trust him. _I tell you true, Hermione_. His heart pounded against his chest like an unwilling prisoner against his bars. _Please do not cast me away. Please do not cast me away. Please._

Nicholas was beginning to wish he had better prepared for this conversation when Hermione slowly, tentatively gazed at him. Her lips barely lifted, but they raised his hopes - his heart - as they turned up.

“I don’t think . . .” Hermione said timidly. “How do I know you won't just take advantage of this . . . of me?"

He should have been offended. But there was something about the words that seemed like she was testing him. Nicholas searched his mind for an answer that would have pleased him if he had been the one to ask the question, and hoped it would be the answer that would also please her. “I would not, but my words are nothing to convince you of that, not if you are really as clever as they all say. You will want to decide for yourself whether I am worthy of your trust, and I am not wont to disagree.”

“You’re not upset by my distrust?”

“Why would I be?” Nicholas crossed his arms and smirked.  _Confidence is an art you must perfect_ , Ragnarok always told him. _Hide your tremors with laughter, your fear with regal pleasure._ “After all, a soul bond consists of _two_ individuals, Hermione Granger. How do I know if you are worthy of _my_ trust."

She opened her mouth slightly and furrowed her eyebrows. " _Worthy?_ " There was astonishment in her gaze and her lips spread wider in a pleased expression of wonder. "Is that a challenge?" 

Nicholas shrugged. “It can be.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head with a goading smile. “Whyever not?”

Hermione leaned towards him. “Because I never lose.”


	4. The Prince's Plot

Hermione’s world had been shaken to the core by an earthquake that came in the shape of an ebony-haired, light-grey-eyed, prince. Maddeningly, though, she did not hide from the tremors. She watched everything she knew fall to rubble around her, standing idly by as if everything was fine.

Saviour. Lioness. Prince. Soul-Bond.

_Harry. Me. Nicholas. Soul-Bond._

Lioness. Prince. Soul-Bond.

_Me. Nicholas. Soul-Bond._

 Prince. Soul-Bond.

_Nicholas. Soul-Bond._

Soul-Bond.

_Merlin, I’m soul-bound._

The words whizzed around her head, but she could not find it in her to fully grasp them. Hermione could not believe that out of all the people in the world _she_ had to be the one to experience this rare piece of magic.

Mrs. Weasley had spoken about soul-bonds before, with both Hermione and Ginny, while she gushed about another one of her romance novels. She had breathlessly enlightened them both upon the fact that having a soul mate was a real possibility; a distinct, almost untraceable one, unless you have the resources to really look, but a possibility nonetheless. Hermione was aware that the novels Mrs. Weasley read usually fed on this possibility by regurgitating lies to the readers, making them fantasize and create the idea that it could happen to them, that they could find their soul mate and marry them and have children with them and live happily ever after.

 _It’s just a bunch of folly_ , Hermione had privately scoffed. Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, Lavender, Parvati . . . _everyone;_  they all told Hermione what she was missing out on. Lavender and Parvati had even given Hermione their favourites to read so they could all have something they could talk about. Doubtless, they were disappointed when Hermione gave them back, sparsely read, a few days later. The books did not appeal to her. And even now, with what she knew, there was little chance she would glance at them again. They lacked facts, and facts were what she so desperately needed.

 _The bond is only dangerous when those who are bonded are distanced from each other_ , that’s what the prince had said, but he did not mention where he had gained this knowledge from. Hermione had no way of knowing if he was telling her the truth, except for Edwin who had vouched for his words, and for his beseeching silver eyes that shone with desperation. _Please_ , they had seemed to say. _Please don’t cast me away._

There was some small part of her that told her to take more time to decide, but the look in his eyes made the big part of her scream and beg her to not turn him away. She tried reasoning it out, tried telling herself that the prince did not appear, at a first impression, to be as selfish or forceful as she thought others may have been if placed in his position. It was true, he could have used his status as Prince, _the_ _Heir_ , to force her to accept their bond in any way he wished. But instead he sat back and calmly returned that little piece of humanity she lost. He returned her ability to choose. This sparked intrigue in her, for she could not think of any reason he would do this, apart from a consideration of her feelings on the matter . . . or a ploy to gain her trust.

When she asked him if he would take advantage of the bond, she wanted to see what he would say. Hermione had no intention of believing him until he had turned it around on her:

 _“. . . a soul bond consists of two people, Hermione Granger. How do I know if you are worthy of **my** trust?_ ”

For some reason, her heart beat just that little bit faster at his statement. His audacity, the little lift at the corner of his lips, somehow transformed him from a stranger to someone she really wanted to know. He was an enigma, and she found herself reasoning that friendship was never too much to ask for, especially when the two involved were supposed to be crucial figures within a prophecy that promised the defeat of the Dark Lord.

Sitting beside Edwin in the dining room of Grimmauld Place, Hermione heard Prince Nicholas quietly whispering to the Lord Commander as they waited for her and Harry to fully absorb all they had been told. She closed her eyes. Her body was warmer than usual, and a most ethereal sense of peace had managed to gently embrace her, not unlike a mother would her child. Her mind was calmer than she could ever remember it being, her thoughts organised and still, not whirring around in a rush as they normally would have, and her emotions were tranquil. It was as if time had come to a stand-still within her and she had merely become a spectator of the world. Finally, Hermione understood what Prince Nicholas meant when he asked for the _peace of companionship_. This clarity was wonderful, and the desire to want it was understandable – especially since, though she loathed to admit it, she now wanted it too.

“Lord Commander?” Harry called unsurely.

Edwin raised his head. “Yes?”

“What are we going to do about the Ministry?”

“Quite a lot,” he replied. “Their decision to expel you from Hogwarts and also their not believing the Dark Lord’s return is rather troubling –”

“And also a big waste of time in the lead up for the war to come,” said Nicholas.

“Dumbledore spoke about the expulsion issue during the last Order meeting before you two came,” Sirius informed them. “He said that he managed to get Harry a trial. He’s being summoned to a hearing in front of the Wizengamot tomorrow.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Edwin exclaimed. “They mean to give him a full trial? He’s not even seventeen!”

“Perhaps we could use this to our advantage, though,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “A lot of people would be present.”

The Lord Commander paused. “You’re right,” he realised. “There would be an ample amount of witnesses present. It would be the perfect opportunity . . .”

Hermione looked between them. “You both have a plan?”

“Several,” Nicholas responded simply, to her dismay, appearing quite pleased. He gestured at Edwin. “Lord Commander, if you will.”

Edwin pulled his wand from the black leather holster on his arm, placing it on the table in front of him, and then turning his attention to Harry. “I believe that this trial could be the ideal place to prove to the Ministry that your claims are true. However, in order to do that, I will need access to your memories – specifically, when you witnessed the return of Lord Voldemort.”

Harry seemed unsure. “Will it hurt?”

“No, no,” Edwin quickly reacted. “It will only make you relive the memory.”

“Then, I suppose we should get it over with,” said Harry.

Edwin raised himself to his feet and picked up his Birchwood wand. He meandered around Hermione’s chair, heading for Harry who still sat next to her. “What I’m about to do is called Legilimency,” he informed. “It’s a type of magic that allows an individual to read another’s mind.”

Harry visibly recoiled, suddenly uncertain. Hermione was instantly reminded of how much of an awfully private person he was. Most likely, he was going to ask whether there was any other way of taking the memory that would not involve swiping through all of his thoughts.

Edwin managed to speak first, possibly because he had noticed Harry’s hesitance. “I will not delve anywhere you do not want me to. All you need to do to make this a little easier for me is think about the specific memory I asked you for so that it is at the forefront of your mind.”

“The Lord Commander trained me in the technique of preventing Legilimency attacks on my mind,” said Nicholas encouragingly. “This required him to read my mind – attack it, if you will – at any given time. During that period, I always felt him retreat as soon as he was able to break my mental walls. Trust me when I say he will not violate your privacy.”

“You’ve already learned Occlumency?” Hermione questioned.   

"It was necessary,” he shrugged. “There are whispers that suggest Voldemort is a master in Legilimency. If that is true, there is a chance he could learn all of my secrets with a single glance in my direction. And I did not feel like gambling on that chance, however little it may be.”

“How long did it take you?”

“I started learning four years ago, but I assure you I am far from mastery,” Nicholas told her. “My walls are not completely impenetrable yet, and unfortunately that is what they must be to avoid breaking against Voldemort’s force.”

“The arts of Legilimency and Occlumency are both difficult to learn,” added Edwin. “Occlumency is the hardest of the two and I had only managed to fully master it after about six years of steady periods of meditation. I have to say Prince Nicholas is doing quite well.”

Nicholas flushed slightly.

“Could you teach me?” Hermione asked excitedly.

Harry snorted at the same time that Edwin smiled.

“Yes, I could,” said Edwin, but then giving her a pointed look. “I should tell you, though, that it would have been part of one your extra-curricular electives had you chosen to attend the Druid Institute.”

Hermione grimaced. “I’m sorry.”

“So this Legilimency will get you into my mind?” Harry inquired.

“Indeed, it will,” Edwin answered. “Like I said, it is painless and quick so long as the memory is at the forefront of your mind. Do you consent?”

Harry glimpsed at his godfather who gave him an encouraging smile. He then returned his stare to the Lord Commander. “Yeah, I consent.”

Edwin raised his wand and, after allowing the boy a few moments to prepare, he whispered: _“Legilimens.”_ His eyes gently flitted shut as Harry tightly clenched his own. Hermione saw Edwin’s eyes quickly moving beneath his closed eyelids, like they were thoroughly searching for something.

They remained like that for some time. Hermione, mildly concerned, turned towards Nicholas and, whilst inwardly remarking that he was quite fidgety as he played with the belt that kept his sword fastened to his waist, remarked: “Surely it shouldn’t take this long to find a memory?”

He stopped his movements and looked up at her in surprise. “Did we not mention before? Edwin is required to watch the memory all the way through so he can extract it from his own memories if needed.”

The answer was brief, and it held the barest hint of patronisation, leaving Hermione quite miffed. “I don’t know why you expected me to know that,” she snapped. “You said you have several plans, but you’ve given me little clue as to what they actually are –”

“ _Hermione,_ ” Sirius said warningly.

“No.” She ignored Sirius’ disapproving frown and stared accusingly at Nicholas, who had a prominent line between his brows as he pursed his lips in bewilderment. Her following words were a swift strike, a stab in his chest. “You’ve been preparing for quite some time now, Your Highness, that’s apparent enough. But need I remind you that Harry and I haven’t had that privilege?” Hermione glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece behind Sirius. “An hour. We’ve known that we’re the Lioness and the Saviour for only an hour, and now we have this – this _destiny_ to destroy Voldemort, all without having the first clue as to how we would do it because there are those who would rather continue to call their schemes ' _plans'_ than actually detail them.”

Hermione’s rant had taken Nicholas aback, that much was for sure. He had leaned back in his chair and opened then closed his mouth in an attempt to fiqure out what to say. As her chest heaved from her verbal exertion, there was something nagging her in her mind. _You’re dumping your frustration on him_ , it said. Hermione pushed it down angrily, not wanting to hear it right at this moment.

“Um – I . . . I am sorry,” said Nicholas, humbly bowing his head. “You are right. I have been preparing for this all since I was eleven, and some may say that I have been training for even longer than that. It is easy, I find, to forget that I am not talking to either Edwin or my guardian – both of whom have known about at least one of the prophecies for as long as I have – who helped me prepare. I never intended to act as though I knew better or that I would keep secrets. I promise you, both yourself and Harry will know everything I know by tomorrow.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Why wait till tomorrow if you’re going to tell us anyway?”

“I only meant it would take about two days to relay all of the information we have gathered to you.” Nicholas released a small laugh, staring pointedly at Hermione. “There _is_ a lot of it, you know – nearly six years’ worth of research.”

Heat spread through her cheeks.

“Still, I do not want you to worry about your preparation,” the prince went on. “Although the information I will give you is invaluable to our cause, there are still a large number of unknowns in terms of how the war is going to carry through. This is why I do not intend to tamper with the few things I know for sure; the Saviour and the Lioness must be present for victory, for example, and we are all required for the formation of Albion.”

Hermione pursed her lips, willing her embarrassment to fade, and nodded in acceptance. Knitting her eyebrows together in thought, she tried to remember where she had heard _Albion_ in the prophecy. “ _The age of unity for all creatures looms. . ._ ” she finally quoted. _“The Age of Albion is coming.”_

“Yes.” Nicholas smiled tentatively. “As you probably already know, the relations between wizards and other magical creatures with the same intelligence as our own are – uh –” He trailed off, unable to find a word to describe the situation.

“Fictional?” Hermione offered dryly.

 Nicholas chuckled. “Yes, exactly. But I hope to remedy that during my reign.”

“How?” she asked, intrigued.

The prince raised his eyes to the ceiling, considering the question. “Well, I suppose I would start by removing all the laws that restrict their living – which, I should mention, are nearly all of the laws that involve them. I would then meet with them. I would permanently open the doors that were previously kept locked with the exception of wizards opening them to deliver new commands and legislations to them before slamming them shut again, demanding their obedience by giving them no time to object.”

“You seem sure they would be willing to talk to you.”

“I assure you I am not certain they will.” He let out a long breath, but grinned anyway. There was melancholy in the shine of his metallic eyes. “However, I was taught to have an equal measure of both confidence and hope by my guardian. He believed it to be the mark of a good king.”

“Your guardian’s right,” said Sirius idly. “Confidence is the strength of the mind while hope is the strength of the heart. Control in both would be necessary for any human being willing to be good, but strength . . . embody strength in your mind and heart and you’ll be a king to remember, Your Highness.”

“You can bet _I’ll_ remember you,” Hermione told him with a smile, unaware that she had gained some respect for him. “Everyone else your age is busy thinking about Quidditch and girls and food. They wouldn’t bat an eyelid at the unjustness of the creature laws.”

“They cannot be blamed for that,” said Nicholas amusedly. “They are not expected to rule a country full of political drivel in the near future.”

“Still, it’s not an excuse for their ignorance.”

 Nicholas’ eyebrows twitched as he threw her a smile that seemed so genuinely interested, filled with little bits of shyness here and there, and Hermione nearly swallowed when the warmth flowed through her like a tide.

“You are . . . passionate about creature laws?”

Hermione’s cheeks burnt again. She remembered the whole S.P.E.W. business, how everyone had mocked her for her opinions, and she considered lying to the prince. “They deserve better,” she told him cautiously. “House Elves, Werewolves, Goblins, Vampires . . . they’ve done nothing but try to live their lives in peace. I mean, Vampires and Werewolves are a bit more troublesome with their blood cravings and moon turnings, but they can’t help that . . .”

“I completely agree,” Nicholas said eagerly, surprising her immensely. “Actually, did you know that the Goblins –”

But then Harry abruptly gasped, jerking back in his seat. Hermione snapped her head to the boy, concern melding onto her face when she saw the distressed shine in his eyes and the haunting shadow that shrouded over his features. Edwin took a few steps back from Harry, shaking his head. He gripped his own chair for a moment, as if he was using it to gain back his bearings, before he fell onto it heavily. His brown eyes were wide in either horror or sadness, Hermione could not tell, yet it disconcerted her nonetheless.

“What’s wrong?” She gripped Harry’s shoulder and looked at Edwin.

Neither were ready to answer, but Edwin found his strength. “In all my years . . . all I have seen,” he said shakily, “I’m sorry to say that memory I just watched has become one of the worst of my own.” He then intertwined his hands on top of the table and laid his forehead on top of them for a few seconds before he lifted his head up and told Nicholas, “A ritual brought him back, he wasn’t in hiding.”

“ _Bastard_ ,” Nicholas hissed instantly. “He made a Horcrux. He made a _damned_ Horcrux.”

Hermione wracked her mind trying to think if she had ever heard – or read – about what a Horcrux was. She had not. But the way Nicholas spat the word like an additional curse to the ones he had already said made snakes coil around her stomach. _Do I want to know?_

It did not matter as Harry asked for them both: “What’s a Horcrux?”

Edwin rubbed his head tiredly. “It is one of the vilest pieces of magic known to all magical creatures.” Hermione and Harry gave him blank looks, so he elaborated, “A Horcrux is a tool any magical being can use to gain immortality.”

“But that’s supposed to be impossible!” Hermione exclaimed.

“That’s only what your Professors tell you,” said Sirius. “It’s very much possible, but most wizards – including Grindelwald who was considered one of the worst – were too afraid to go through the actual ritual required to do it.”

“At the graveyard, then,” Harry said thoughtfully, “what I saw . . . that was Voldemort making a Horcrux?”

“No,” Edwin replied. “What you saw was Voldemort going through a different ritual, one that gained him a new body. A Horcrux is created by splitting one’s own soul and placing a piece of it within a container – living or inanimate.”

Hermione frowned. “So if that was him getting a new body how did you know that a Horcrux brought him back?”

“His original body was destroyed in Godric’s Hollow fifteen years ago,” Edwin explained. “When his magic backlashed against Lily Potter’s sacrificial magic, his body was rendered inhabitable. In any normal case, this would have meant that his soul passed on to the next plain . . . except it didn’t because he’s back. This means that something anchored his soul to this world.”

“The Horcrux?”

Edwin nodded. “The piece must have been extracted some time before the events at Godric’s Hollow . . .” His eyes suddenly widened in some sort of realisation. “Why did you scream when Voldemort touched you, Harry?”

“Er – I don’t really know,” Harry answered confusedly, rubbing his forehead where the lightning-bolt shaped scar laid. “It always sort of stings when he’s nearby.”

“You’ve faced him before?” Nicholas was aghast.

“Twice before. At the ends of Hermione and I’s first and second years.”

Edwin and Nicholas glanced at each other in shock.

“Can you tell us about those times?” asked Edwin.

Harry thought for a moment, recollecting their adventures most likely. “The first time, Voldemort possessed the Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. He was after the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Makes sense,” Nicholas remarked. “He attempted to steal it to get a new body, yes?”

“Yeah,” Harry affirmed.

“The Philosopher’s Stone was the only other thing I considered to be what would allow the Dark Lord to return,” Edwin told them. “That is, until Professor Dumbledore and Nicholas Flamel called upon the Druid Union to securely dispose of it.”

“What about the other time you faced him?” Nicholas prompted Harry.

“That was second-year,” he responded. “He looked younger, about your age, Your Highness, and was trying to come back through his old diary. But I stabbed it before he could come back fully.”

“Stabbing the diary stopped him?” Nicholas questioned incredulously. “What did you stab it with?”

“A Basilisk fang.”

Edwin released his hands from one another and faced Harry, face scrunched, horrified. “There was truly a Basilisk in Hogwarts?”

“How the _hell_ did you find a bloody Basilisk?” Sirius raged, though Hermione – and Harry, too – knew that his anger was fuelled by only concern.

 “Well, Hermione found out that a Basilisk was attacking the Muggle-born students, but then she was attacked –”

 _“Attacked?”_ Nicholas’ voice was both silk and steel.

“Yeah. I found her notes when I was in the Hospital Wing with her and followed the clues she gave us until I found the Chamber of Secrets, along with my friend Ron and Professor Lockhart,” Harry continued. “There, Tom – I mean, Voldemort – was waiting for me with the student he was possessing. He set the Basilisk on me –”

“You mean to say it was still _alive_ when you went inside?”

Harry nodded. “Dumbledore’s phoenix – Fawkes – helped me kill it –”

“Not before it managed to bite you, of course,” Hermione said dryly.

“If it didn’t bite me, I wouldn’t have gotten the fang I used to destroy the diary,” Harry pointed out.

“How are you both so calm?” Nicholas nearly yelled, silver eyes ablaze. “You –” he looked at Hermione, “You were _petrified!”_

“So were three other Muggle-born.”

The reply only made his nose flare as he took a breath to calm himself. “And you –” he looked at Harry, “how did you survive the Basilisk's venom?”

“Fawkes healed the bite with his tears.” Harry lifted his sleeve up and revealed completely unblemished pale skin. “He didn’t even leave a scar.”

Nicholas covered his face with his hands.

“I will be speaking to Dumbledore,” Edwin said, deathly quiet. “What happened after you stabbed the diary, Harry?”

“The fang burnt a hole all the way through the diary and Voldemort was screaming really loudly until he disappeared.”

Edwin nodded slowly. “The diary was probably a Horcrux, his first Horcrux by how young you described him to be,” he remarked. “The burning in your scar . . . is it _only_ when Voldemort is in your presence?”

“I think so,” Harry replied. “Why?”

Edwin blinked, and then visibly swallowed, hesitant as he glanced at Nicholas and Nicholas glanced back, just as unsure. Their reluctance was worrying, especially when Hermione considered the last time they had those looks on their faces; the prophecies had not been good news at all.

Nicholas was the one to break the silence. “From what you have told us, Harry, Edwin and I . . . well, we have good reason to believe that your connection to Voldemort is actually much deeper than we had initially thought.” He paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “The burning in your scar while in the presence of the Dark Lord coupled with your link to him through the prophecies . . . what I mean to say is, I think, when Voldemort murdered your mother and father, he may have been successful in splitting his soul once again –”

Hermione gasped loudly, steering terrified eyes to her best friend who remained puzzled. He gave her a questioning stare, closely eyeing her face which must have been reflecting all the shock and despair she had been feeling. “ _No_ ,” she whispered, anguished. “No, no _, no.”_ Hermione grasped his hand tightly – so tight that she was sure her nails would leave marks – and he only glanced down at her hand, then back at her, then to everyone else in the room, begging someone, _anyone_ , to tell him what the hell was going on.

“Edwin told us that a Horcrux can be placed into any object, and it could be living or inanimate,” Hermione began reluctantly, her voice wavering. “And if we were to assume the closest thing to Voldemort after he killed your mum that wasn’t broken was _you_. . . then, when the Killing Curse backfired, a piece of Voldemort’s soul must have been able to find its way into your scar.”

Terror struck Harry’s face. “A piece of V-Voldemort is inside me?”

“I am . . . sorry,” said Nicholas pityingly. “Truly.”

Edwin sighed through his nose. “Dumbledore probably knows.”

"Probably?” Nicholas laughed maliciously. “He knows, Edwin.”

“The diary was far too obvious for him to ignore, to be sure,” Edwin agreed. “I have an inkling the Professor may have _expected_ Mr. Potter to have a Horcrux within him.”

“What makes you say that?” Sirius asked with a frown.

“You know he was the one to witness the first prophecy, Lord Black, the one that focused solely on Harry and Voldemort,” Edwin started. “It’s obvious from all the evidence that Voldemort had been attempting to return to a physical form for a long time. Professor Dumbledore would have been foolish to not have come to the conclusion that Voldemort’s soul still lived on.”

“Does Dumbledore know about your scar, Harry?” Nicholas questioned.

Harry’s face was still ashen, but he managed to mutter his reply, “He does.”

The prince clapped his hands together, giving Edwin a pointed look. “Dumbledore knows.”

Hermione listened intently and suddenly all of Dumbledore’s actions during the past few months began to make sense, the jagged puzzle pieces started to fix together, fitting perfectly, into the bigger picture she had in her mind. But she could not be sure that the image was a correct visualisation until she gained some validation. “Would this connection between Harry and the Dark Lord cause any trouble for the Order of the Phoenix?” Hermione asked. “Would it give Dumbledore any reason to keep Harry in the dark?”

“Well,” Edwin said uneasily as he scratched the back of his head, “I suppose, yes. The nature of this link between Mr. Potter and Voldemort is still a thing of mystery for myself, but Dumbledore has had time to observe it, comprehend it. He would have collected enough information throughout the years to conclude Harry to be a – uh – a security risk.”

Sirius rested his elbows on the table, locking his hands together as he regarded the Lord Commander over them. “You obviously don’t agree with that decision.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice, my lord.”

“You have to remember that we’ve been preparing as long as Dumbledore has, Lord Black,” Nicholas explained. “While we did not expect Harry to _be_ one, we had expected Voldemort to have made Horcruxes, and therefore we had prepared ourselves with a variety of tools that can –”

“ _Your Highness_ ,” Edwin interjected, “we don’t know if we’ll be able to –”

“Yes, we do,” said Nicholas sharply. “Living or inanimate, that’s what we prepared for, Lord Commander. Harry is a living, breathing, being. We have the means, so do you intend for me to keep that from him?”

“I felt his mind when I was watching his memories,” Edwin tried, “there was nothing to suggest any tampering or influence from the Dark Lord.”

“Can you promise the soul piece cannot influence him in the future?”

Edwin _tsked_ in frustration, shaking his head. “Of course I can’t, but Mr. Potter is only – what? – fifteen? You would ask him to go through the process?”

“I would,” said Nicholas, turning to Harry. “We have a way to extract the Horcrux. Would you be willing to do it?”

“You can really get it out?” Harry spluttered hopefully.

“Yes,” Nicholas confirmed. “I can make arrangements for it to be done as early as tomorrow.”

“The hearing is tomorrow, Your Highness,” Sirius reminded.

“I know,” he replied simply. “The procedure would take place afterwards, in Gringotts.”

“Why Gringotts?” asked Harry.

“The building itself is insusceptible to dark magics,” Nicholas told him. “It would be safest to remove it there. Are you willing?”

“Yeah!” Harry shouted obviously. “You don’t think I’d actually want Voldemort in my head, do you?”

Nicholas smiled.

“Wait, wait,” said Hermione with a disbelieving shake of her head. “This has been with Harry for nearly his whole life. And Dumbledore’s apparently known it was there since, at least, his second-year. Why did Dumbledore not do this himself? Surely, if the removal was as simple as a medical procedure, then he would have known about it?”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” said Edwin.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Nicholas rolled his eyes, “the procedure I am thinking of will not be conducted by wizards, but rather it will be overseen by goblins.” Hermione scrunched up her face in confusion, so he continued, “Older wizards – particularly those who are in superior positions like Dumbledore is – were all raised in the belief that they are better than everyone else –”

“Dumbledore doesn’t believe in that stuff!” Harry defended.

 

“Whether he has told you he has or has not is unimportant,” said Nicholas, waving his hand indifferently. “Wizards have always felt that they are the greater species where it comes to magical power. And if they find no answer in their world, they will think there is no answer at all. A notion which is clearly untrue.”

“I’ve noticed that, too,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “So many wizards think Muggles are . . . primitive, like they’re babies that need to be protected. If Muggle Studies even _touched_ upon the World Wars . . . wizards would know that they’ve been underestimating just how dangerous they can be.”

“It’s not just Muggles either,” Nicholas added. “Do you think the Goblins received their ability to conjure greatly resilient magical wards that guard fortunes effectively from _wizards_? Do you think House Elves are able to use wandless magic to summon an item of clothing from across a palace because _wizards_ taught them to do so? There is no one on this Earth who can convince me Hogwarts is teaching you anything that allows you to think, for a single moment, wizards are not the only capable users of magic.”

 _He's right,_ she realised. _The Goblins have been trusted to guard our finances, but no one ever told us why it had to specifically be the Goblins when wizards should have been perfectly capable to do it themselves. And the House Elves had always been strong magically, but how can I have never realised they used magic without any wands, and that they always did it so effortlessly where wizards would have struggled to do the simplest of spells wandlessly._ Hermione lowered her head in thought.

“Care of Magical Creatures,” she eventually said disdainfully. “Its modules include Goblins, and Mermaids, and Centaurs.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes with the same level of scorn. “It suggests that wizards believe it to be their responsibility to attend to those creatures, and completely ignores whether they have the natural capability to take care of themselves, or have a higher mental and magical capacity at all.”

Inwardly, Hermione groaned. _How can I have not noticed this? Hogwarts is raising generation after generations of ignorant wizards and I didn’t even realise I was one of them. I should have gone to the Druid Institute when I had the chance,_ she thought regretfully. All the subjects that Hermione was studying at Hogwarts would only make her skilled in the art of wizardry – as opposed to magic overall as she had once believed.

“Lord Black,” said Edwin. “Could you notify Professor Dumbledore about a small change in Mr. Potter’s trial tomorrow?”

“What change?”

“I will be attending as Mr. Potter’s attorney,” he told him.

Sirius’ gaunt face was a pool of still water, giving no hint of what lied in its depths . . . until he smiled a mischievous smile that made Hermione nervous. “I’ll floo him as soon as possible.”

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

Nicholas took his leave from Hermione and Harry and Sirius Black after they had all come to some agreement on what time Edwin should arrive back at Grimmauld Place tomorrow.

The Lord Commander had a lot to do tonight when he returned to the Druid Union Headquarters in Rome, that much was for sure. On the walk up to Ragnarok’s Palace, Edwin told Nicholas about the slight issue concerning Croatia’s recent victory after Operation Storm – the largest Muggle battle seen in Europe since World War II – as many magical colonies had been forced to evacuate their homes and find shelter elsewhere. Apparently, some of the magical factions had risen in protest of the Muggle war, rising up with ideas of revolution and using magic to settle the dispute despite the clear laws in the Statute of Secrecy that prohibited any such action.

 _I do not envy his position_ , Nicholas thought. As Lord Commander of the Druid Union, Edwin was expected to be a diplomatic individual who always strived for a peaceful solution to whatever conflict he had been called upon to settle. Prince Nicholas had found, long ago, he was unable to play well with those who were not of an, at least, above average intellect. Ragnarok often reprimanded him for this, telling him that a king should treat everyone with dignity, even those who were too stupid to even realise they were talking to a king. But from what experiences Edwin had retold, however, Nicholas knew that he would not be thrilled to meet the idiots he was sure to encounter sooner or later.

Walking through the crowded village outside the Palace gates, Nicholas heard the low sound of a myriad of voices murmuring and thrumming and seething, and the gentle splashing of the river against its bank. The faint light of the moon appeared and disappeared as the clouds moved, shimmering against the soft ripples in the river, and Nicholas took it all in.

This was home.

“Edwin,” said Nicholas softly, “I can see myself to the palace from here. You can leave.”

“I would rather see you there, Your Highness,” Edwin replied.

A scowl grew on his face as he eyed the great golden gates that guarded the palace as well as the ramparts that ran a perimeter all around the area. On top of the parapets, several goblins in silver plated armour paced leisurely, spears kept in hand. They must have spotted Nicholas some time ago, otherwise they would have been sounding their horns at the sight of a human in their territory. “The guards know I am here, Edwin. They have been ordered by King Ragnarok to protect me too, you know.”

Edwin inclined his head, following the prince’s line of sight, and told him simply, “I’m seeing you there for my own peace of mind, Your Highness, not because I don’t trust King Ragnarok’s guards.”

Nicholas snorted. “You have gone soft.”

“Perhaps, I have.” Edwin chuckled. “I’ve watched you grow, and I can hardly believe you’re nearly a man grown.”

“I do hope you do not say anything more, Edwin,” he teased, “I might cry.”

They came to a halt in front of the great double-gates. A clear thirty feet tall and made from long rods of pure gold, the gates screamed of the lavishness of the Goblins to whosoever came to visit. The bottom of every gold rod had been inscribed with beautifully drawn patterns – the language of the Goblin Race – and there, between them, spiders had woven their webs. Two crests comfortably adorned the middle of both gates. Ragnarok’s crest was ancient; his family sigil went back centuries and centuries, and Nicholas was sure any Goblin in the world would be able to recognise the two crossed axes above a golden burning flame. The words of Ragnarok’s House echoed in Nicholas’ mind: _Let us Rage . . . Let us Rage . . . Let us Rage._

He knew the Goblins were a warring people, but it was never more prominent than all those times he set his eyes upon those words. There was something about them that made him want to fight. His heart thumped against his chest like drums in a battle, and he desired, more than anything, to lead men into victory. It should have been ridiculous, knowing that he was a wizard and had no right to utter those words, but he always felt stronger when he heard them, and he knew if this war ever came to battle, he would feel those words in his bones.

“Prince Nicholas!” The guard above was old, his voice croaky, yet he was mirthful. He stood with two others wearing the same silvery armour as the rest of the Palace Guard. “Will you not tell us all where you have been?”

“I do not know, Farvolt,” Nicholas retorted lazily, raising both his eyebrows at Edwin who stood silently observing the encounter in amusement, “I suppose I can . . . _if_ you beat me in a duel.”

Farvolt laughed his gravelly laugh, and his friends also chuckled deeply. “You appear to have forgotten I have already kicked you onto your pink arse a hundred times.”

“Then make it a hundred and one,” Nicholas challenged him, “unless, of course, you are scared. After all, I clearly remember nearly beating you last time, and you _have_ gotten quite old since.”

The two others who stood with Farvolt – Shadowmine and Cogsnipe – hooted at the insult Nicholas had thrown.

“Do not rile me too much, boy,” Farvolt amusedly warned. “I will fight you on the morrow.”

“Very well,” said Nicholas, throwing a smirk at him. “I will throw you onto your wrinkly arse by sunrise.”

“Prince Nicholas mocks you, Admiral.” Cogsnipe – like Shadowmine – was significantly younger than Farvolt, and relatively new to the King’s Service. Although he was only a Private, he had the same humour and thirst for battle as most Goblins his age and saw fit to add to Nicholas’ taunts. “You do not intend for him to get away with that, do you?”

“He needs to be taught a lesson,” Shadowmine said with a razor-sharp grin.

Farvolt wandered calmly over to the gates. “He will be taught a great lesson, but he will be taught it on the morrow.”

Nicholas nearly laughed out loud, and he would have if it were not for his will to live. The prince had been riling the goblins at the gates since he was five-years-old; he knew _exactly_ what would push their buttons, and he knew that touching upon their pride would make them a little more reckless in battle – it was the perfect weakness for him to use to his advantage.

However, Nicholas still felt a little guilty manipulating the guards like this. Growing up, he had quite a few issues with these particular goblins. They had mistrusted him greatly, justifiably thinking him to be just like the ignorant wizards who had given them specific zones to make a living, make a home, in, and did not quite understand why he would have the honour of living with their king. After many duels with them – where they took a cruel joy out of knocking him to the ground – and the declarations of loyalty he had fought for, these goblins began to trust him. And as Farvolt unbolted the latch that kept the gates shut, stepping back as he pulled one of the large gates open about halfway – just enough to allow Nicholas and Edwin to walk in side by side – Nicholas’ joy burst at the physical evidence of their faith in him. He did not let this delight distract him, though . . .

“It is time for you to go back to Rome, Lord Commander,” Nicholas ordered, putting a hand to Edwin’s chest to stop him from taking another step forward. He gave a not-too-rough push to get the message across, watching as Edwin smiled amusedly at him.

“Is it?”

Nicholas nodded and sauntered through the gates, closing them behind him, effectively shutting Edwin out. “Will you give Jane my love?”

Edwin snorted. “I’ve been too busy to give her _my_ love for these past few days. What makes you think I would give her yours?”

“Does my love being far more valuable, more likely to be appreciated, seem like enough reason?"

Farvolt winced, then chuckled. “He has cut your legs from you, Lord Commander.”

“He is getting brave, I know,” Edwin acknowledged, a glint promising retribution shining darkly in his chocolate eyes. “I’ll tell you what, Farvolt; I’ll have fifty silvers and a bottle of Baeric 1902 waiting for you if you win tomorrow.”

“Baeric 1902, you say?” Farvolt’s black orbs narrowed hungrily. That particular vintage elfish-wine was not too rare, but it was still quite expensive (which was understandable when the scarlet liquid ran down your throat like liquid silk and tasted absolutely delightful) so Farvolt’s interest had definitely been caught. “You can keep your silver, so long as I have that bottle to drink on the eve of my victory, Lord Commander.”

“Will you not offer me anything if I win, Edwin?” Nicholas inquired insolently.

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Edwin in mock thought. “You are extremely happy today, and for good reason, so how about I offer you mercy?”

Nicholas made a face. “Seems terribly cheap.”

Edwin snorted, turning about and quietly walking back off the way they had both come. “Do not hurt yourself too badly, Your Highness,” he said by way of farewell. “I don’t think Hermione will have anything against you if you are crippled, but better to be safe, yes?”

Nicholas glowered. “Shut up!”

Edwin’s laughter was boisterous and it faded off into the distance. Shaking his head, Nicholas clenched his jaw, not really understanding why the jibe had angered him this much. But when he spun round to marvel at the sight in the distance, the short burst of fury ebbed away to nothing.

Nicholas had seen the palace in this light before, many times before, but there was something about tonight that made him notice it in a way he had not previously done. Earlier in the morning, the sky had been as blue as any tropical sea, yet now it had been replaced with one that was steadily blackening as the seconds passed. When the sun fully sank into the trees of the forest beside the river, night had come, and the lights of the King’s Palace were slowly lit; ultimately, the palace became a beacon of light, beckoning Nicholas to come closer – to come home. Like a moth, the prince could not find it within himself to resist the natural urge to go nearer.

 _It is so small_ _compared to Lord Black’s home_ , Nicholas observed,  _but much more scenic._ A year ago, he had realised that, because of his rapidly developing height, the palace belonging to King Ragnarok would have been considered a small manor by any wizard who passed by. This disheartened him, for sure, but he agreed with the logic; there was no way that Ragnarok could have a proper palace, one that was large in wizarding measurements, without angering the rest of his people who lived in the crowded village just a few leagues away. Above this, goblins were relatively shorter than wizards, making it extremely unreasonable for them to even consider to have doors with knobs they could never think to reach without jumping.

Despite this, Nicholas was grateful that Ragnarok’s royal bloodline had developed enough to have added height as a specific inherited physical feature, allowing there to be a visible distinction between the royals and their subjects. With this height, Ragnarok was only a few inches shorter than Nicholas was now, and was also much taller than those who served, guarded, or advised him. It made Nicholas’ life easier as the rooms he normally had access to – like the Royal Apartments (where his own bedchambers, the king’s bedchambers, and the king’s study lied) as well as the Throne Room – all had knobs installed to be near his waist. Certain rooms which were only meant for the servants, however, had their knobs placed at Nicholas’ mid-thigh. Most of these rooms forced the prince to bow his head before he entered through the threshold, the actual door being far too small for him to walk straight, though he did not mind that much.

The twin battlements, towers that must have been a pure scarlet when they had first been built from the ground, gleamed a faded red in the distance. King Ragnarok always made sure to inspect the palace for anything out of place, and he insisted on constant maintenance, but what he could not bring himself to either maintain or rebuild, he left as is – as was the fate of the battlements. Even as the colour faded from outside of the rest of the palace, bricks and stones eroding away with age, the magic of the building still survived within. The light of the hundreds of candles lit along the passageways flickered beautifully, dancing like sea waves, and whittled down slightly as Nicholas wandered by. Polished golden trinkets sitting along the many window sills and display cases containing all manners of goblets and jewellery and spears and swords and shields glimmered brightly, reflecting the glow of all the candles.

Nicholas’ footsteps echoed upon contact on the marble floors. _Everyone has gone home_ , he observed. Usually, these hallways were filled with one house elf or another, rushing about to get their daily chores completed, but it was quite late, and he knew only a few who worked during the nights.

One of those particular elves chose, at that moment, to walk out of Nicholas’ bedchambers, brightly announcing, “Highness has returned!”

Nicholas smiled pleasantly. “Hello, Hodrey.”

Hodrey had been Nicholas’ manservant for about fourteen years now. The elf had been born around the same time as Nicholas and was seen as the perfect companion for him by Ragnarok. He was small, coming to just above the prince’s knee, but his tennis-ball eyes were a bulging deep sapphire; his ears were bat-like and floppy, and Nicholas remembered how much he had liked to play with them when he was little.

“Shall I run a bath for His Highness?” Hodrey asked enthusiastically.

"No, thank you, Hodrey,” Nicholas replied. “I need to talk with the king, and I expect I will have some more work to do after that, so you may leave for the night.”

“Yes, Highness.” Hodrey bowed gratefully. “When shall I rise you on the morrow?”

“An hour before sunrise, please,” said Nicholas, a bit sheepish.

Hodrey rolled his big, tennis-ball shaped eyes. “Highness must stop picking fights with the King’s Guard.”

Nicholas threw the elf a smirk. “Never.”

Hodrey shook his head, his ears flapping around as he did so. “Your armour will be ready.” He bowed one final time before taking his leave.

“Thank you,” Nicholas said appreciatively, watching Hodrey’s back as he turned a corner and disappeared. Twisting his neck back forward, Nicholas walked right past his bedchambers and towards the king’s study. His desire to see Ragnarok was strong, magnetic, a natural force he could not deny. He needed to tell Ragnarok what he had found out, he needed the king to know his happiness.

 _Hermione Granger_.

Her name circled around his mind. His heart pounded against his chest as if he had just returned from another sparring session with one of the King’s Guard outside. And he felt the remnants of her touch, like a tender breath warm against his right hand; the heat throbbing in the rhythm of a foreign heart, _her_ heart, as he clutched it into a gentle fist.

There, in that small room Dumbledore had lead him into, Hermione Granger had sat only a few metres away from him. Her soul called out to his, and his called out to hers. But there was a hint of something else, something more carnal, a natural urge that Jane Desmond had warned him about, and it had faintly blurred his good senses.

Hermione Granger was attractive in a soft manner. Her voice was silvery and pleasant, gentle and quiet like the peace of solitude. And her smile . . . _Merlin, her smile_ , he thought breathlessly. It was small, a soft lift in the corners of her lips, but he saw how it had defined the rest of her features; the creases from the widening of her mouth accented her face, the crinkles in the crooks of her caramel eyes highlighted the gleam of mirth in them. Jane and Edwin had once explained to him, not long ago, that the natural impulses boys his age would have concerning those they were attracted to would be increased, tenfold, for him because of the soul bond he shared with the girl they had then only referred to as _The_ _Lioness._ And it certainly _felt_ that way, but he still sensed that his longing to make a connection with her far outweighed the need to . . . well . . .

Nicholas could not argue how the sight of her lips, and how they appeared to be the softest pair he had ever seen, did not drift across his mind. Nevertheless, he was not blinded enough to overlook the frown she wore on those aforementioned lips when she had been told of their bond. He was not unseeing to the level of upset she had been in because of him. It did not, for a single sparing moment, make him want to force himself on her if she did not accept him. The very thought sickened him as much as it did yesterday when he had not even known her. Betraying his honour, as well as the trust she had eventually blessed him with, was unfathomable.

_“Because I never lose.”_

Nicholas must have looked foolish with the wide, joyful, smile that spread across his face like the inevitable rise of the sun at daybreak. Those words she had uttered, those _wonderful_ words, offered him her accord under the guise of a challenge. She agreed to be friends! No more did he have to desperately pour his eyes over her end-of-year test scores, nor the letters Professor Dumbledore had sent Edwin about her over the years, and be silently impressed by those reports. His delight bloomed at the thought that he would now have the chance to get to know Hermione Granger (the girl behind the highest marks seen in Hogwarts in the past seventeen years) as any of her companions – including Harry Potter, the Saviour – probably did.

His feet finally stopped in front of the double-doors of the Goblin King’s personal study. Lifting his hand, he rapped against the door with his right hand.

_Knock, knock, knock._

A moment passed before the deep, grumble of the king’s voice coolly called to him: “Come in.”

Nicholas placed his hand on the golden handle and turned it, calmly pushing his way through to the study. His booted footsteps tapped against the cream marble flooring as he saw King Ragnarok sitting on his desk, as he usually did. He had not changed much in the time Nicholas had known him, though the only perceptible sign of the great number of years that had passed was the sparse grey hair flowing on either side of Ragnarok’s head, which was currently bowed over the numerous documents scattered over his desk. The few torches that burnt in the room were gradually dying down to embers, steadily darkening the room. Wind sighed distantly against the open shutters of the windows, and the first whispers of Autumn touched him with cold fingers. Faint goosebumps rose on Nicholas’ bare skin, so he quietly crossed to the window to close the shutters. A half-moon hung amongst millions of stars in the darkened sky.

The steady tick of the grandfather clock to the side of the chamber was rather noticeable in the silence, and Nicholas wondered how Ragnarok had the patience to hear it constantly in the background of his musings as king.

“Light the torches, will you?”

Nicholas nodded at Ragnarok’s request, and ambled over to the torch fuel kept near the doors. Picking up a few of the small logs of wood, gathering them into his arms, the prince dropped some into each torch in the room, a few sparks rising from the dancing flames each time he did. Eventually, the study was bathed in bright, silvery light as the torches shimmered radiantly against the hammered metal of their sconces.

“Thank you, Nicholas,” Ragnarok grumbled, not yet raising his head. “Dumbledore has accepted the prophecy, I hope?”

“Yes,” Nicholas responded. “And he has given us the contents of his own prophecy.”

“Is it like we expected?”

“Our prophecy is far more detailed,” he answered, “though the Wizard Seer has provided the information we lacked in terms of the link between Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.”

Ragnarok lifted his head and stared at him curiously with black, beady eyes. He had not yet placed down his quill. “Indeed?”

“Edwin will be here to brief you on it all tomorrow morning. Unfortunately, I forgot to ask him for the prophecy glass before he left.”

The Goblin King nodded at him, and then he returned to his work. About a minute of silence followed as Ragnarok’s quill scratched against his parchment. Nicholas remained where he stood, politely waiting for him to finish.

Once Ragnarok had completed his writing, he signed it with a few flourishes at the bottom of the page. “You were away for quite some time,” he said, glancing briefly at the clock that still ticked away. “I am assuming something else had happened.”

“Harry Potter was in the safe house when we visited,” Nicholas replied. “I asked for an audience with him and found that there was much to explain as Dumbledore had not told him anything regarding his destiny.”

Ragnarok dribbled hot crimson wax over the parchment he had just finished. “I would not have expected anything less of the old man.”

“Edwin was also able to watch Harry’s memories –”

Pressing his seal – two crossed axes above a golden burning flame – into the soft wax, the king interrupted with an indifferent wave of his hand, “He did as we had already intended and confirmed Voldemort’s return, I know –”

“But that is not all,” said Nicholas. “He worked out how Voldemort had been able to return in the first place. We were right, Ragnarok . . . Voldemort made Horcruxes –”

_Snap!_

The quill that was clutched tightly in the king’s hand broke in two.

Nicholas continued, “One of those Horcruxes was also found to dwell in Harry Potter’s scar.”

“ _Damn_ it all,” Ragnarok cursed under his breath. Lifting his head, the king scowled at him. “Did your honour beget you to offer the removal?”

A sheepish smile grew on his face. “I am hoping to have it done tomorrow –”

“There is no need for such a rush, Nicholas –”

“But Harry’s Disciplinary Hearing is tomorrow!”

Ragnarok shook his head. “It is still much too quick,” he told him. “This can wait a few days, Nicholas. If you put too much urgency on it, complications may arise that would not have in any normal circumstance where the healers had been given enough time to prepare.”

Nicholas opened his mouth to argue, but hesitated, not knowing whether Ragnarok would accept his reasoning. He considered lying for a little bit, and then shook his head. Ragnarok would see through any and every lie Nicholas could conjure before he was even able to _complete_ the farce. With that, he decided to tell the truth: “It _has_ to be tomorrow, Ragnarok. Today I was told, rather angrily, that I had a significant advantage over the Lioness and the Saviour where our training was concerned –”

“Angrily?” Ragnarok inquired disappointedly. “Who dared to speak to you in that manner? And why had you tolerated it?”

“Her name is Hermione Granger,” Nicholas said simply, her name falling softly from his lips like the first snowflake of winter, “and I had tolerated it because she spoke the truth.”

Candlelight gleamed bright yellow in Ragnarok’s widened black eyes. “Hermione Granger?” He looked at him searchingly, his voice obscured by a rare gentleness. “Is . . . Is she your bonded?”

Nicholas grinned instantly, and idiotically. “Yes!” And an unstoppable flow of words then followed his initial declaration: “The light when I saw her was so bright, Ragnarok, you would not believe it if I told you. She is pretty . . . really pretty, and she is fierce, too! She really cares about the rights of magical creatures, and she said the Goblins and the Werewolves and the Elves deserve better –”

“She sounds wonderful, Your Highness,” Ragnarok said dryly. “It is almost like she was made for you.”

The prince nodded fervently, trying his hardest to get spill his guts in confessions to the one being that would not judge him . . . harshly. “Yes, and she has accepted me – well, she has, more precisely, accepted friendship with me . . .”

“Well done,” Ragnarok commended him amusedly. “This calls for a little celebration, I think.” He pushed himself off his lavish chair and waddled with his stunted legs over to the table to his right that held a pitcher for wine as well as a few bejewelled silver goblets.

“In truth, I had promised _her_ that she would know everything we know by tomorrow,” Nicholas told him as he poured the wine. “She was insistent and . . . frankly, menacing.”

Ragnarok barked out a laugh as he walked towards him, two goblets in hand. “You were frightened of her?”

The prince accepted a goblet when the king offered. “I feel no shame,” he said, shrugging and smiling. “You would have understood, had you been there to hear her.”

“Would that I could have,” said Ragnarok, then paused. “You have still not told me why you feel it would be best to have Harry Potter’s Horcrux removed tomorrow. I am sure you could tell Granger everything and wait a few days to tell Potter.” He went back to his maroon duck-feather filled chair and sat down.

“Harry and Hermione appear to be close friends, just like we had seen in the Daily Prophet a year ago.” Nicholas remembered the hard pang of jealousy that twisted around him as tightly coiled as a serpent when he had seen the image on the front page of the newspaper. Hermione’s arms were around Harry in a desperate embrace just moments before he was to face a dragon. The article had choked him with hands as tight as fists, and he still recalled its words clearly:

 

**Harry Potter’s Secret Heartache**

**_“Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to be developing a taste for famous wizards. Her latest prey, sources report, is none other_ _tha_ _n_ _the Bulgarian Bonbon Viktor Krum. No word yet on how Harry Potter is taking this latest emotional blow.”_ **

 

The rest of the article may well have been utter rubbish (Edwin made sure to inform him of Rita Skeeter's less-than-honest reputation), yet envy had grown, eventually giving way to fury. 

 

**_“Deprived of love since the tragic demise of his parents, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter thought that he had found solace in his steady girlfriend at Hogwarts, Muggle-born Hermione Granger . . .”_ **

 

 _How can I possibly compete_? he had thought needlessly.  _Everyone knows Harry Potter, and she had been steady with him. Everyone knows Viktor Krum, and she has only just begun with him. No one knows who I am. How can she possibly be the Lioness if she is able to . . . be with others?_

The last thought had filled his veins with ice as his eyes glimpsed Potter and Granger's embrace once again, their intimacy playing again and again in his head for the next month or so, driving him to distraction.

“Edwin and I already had an inkling that Potter was the reasoning behind Hermione not accepting enrolment into the Druid Institution,” Nicholas continued, face clear of any hint of his jealousy. “When we found we were correct, I had suspected that she would find it difficult to keep secrets from him.”

“You were afraid Voldemort might be made privy to what we know if she were to tell him.”

Nicholas nodded. “He already knows too much, in my opinion.”

Ragnarok sighed with a shake of his head. “Fine,” he approved, “but you will contact the healers yourself in the morning.”

“I was actually intending to do it tonight.”

“You will not pester the Healers this late,” Ragnarok said firmly. “Contact them in the morning.” When Nicholas bowed his head in dutiful assent, Ragnarok leaned back. “Now drink, Nicholas.”

Nicholas lifted the goblet to his lips and drank. The wine was strong and it tasted of pomegranates and warm summer days, burning his throat as it went down. He used the thumb on his other hand – the one to his right, the one not holding the cup, the one _she_ had touched – to idly brush the rest of his fingers.

“I had always looked forward to the day I would see you smitten with your bonded,” Ragnarok told him, a note of fondness in his deep rumble, “though I had never expected it to happen on the day you met her. I blame Jane Desmond for making you a romantic.”

“Some may call this imprudent,” Nicholas responded more despondently than he felt, “yet I really do hope . . .”

“Keeping faith in love and the person whom you may come to love is never imprudent,” Ragnarok gently assured. “The bond has set the boundaries for what may be . . . the rest depends on the both of you.”

“You say that as if you are comforting me,” Nicholas smiled ruefully. “Edwin has spent years telling us of her stubbornness. I fear I am doomed for isolation if she treats me as aloofly as she had the Druids.”

Guttural laughs escaped the mouth of the king. “Hermione Granger was not destined to attend the Druid Institute. Her attendance at Hogwarts, with Harry Potter, was not left to chance. The Fates brought them together years before you had met them for a reason. And the Fates brought all three of you together today for another.” Ragnarok’s gaze was a fatherly embrace. “Those same Fates promised the Prince and the Lioness to each other before either of you were even born. There is power in the preordained, Nicholas.”

“The Lioness is meant to have enough power of her own to overrule any fate that argues against what she wishes,” he responded, hiding his worry beneath a smile.

“Then you know what you must do,” Ragnarok professed.

Nicholas gave him a confused look. “What?”

“Bare your soul to her,” the king told him. “Bare your soul and show her you are exactly what she wishes for. Show her exactly why the Fates had promised you to her.” 

He faltered away from the question that instantly came to his mind, but then jumped off the cliff, thinking that he might as well since the king appeared to be in a good mood. “Is that what you did?” Nicholas questioned. “With Queen Alsea?”

Silence swallowed the study as Ragnarok gripped his goblet just that little bit tighter. Not many people spoke the late queen’s name around the king anymore, and it was never more obvious why than when his face fell in sudden sadness. Thankfully, though, Ragnarok did not seem angered by the question. “Yes, I did . . .” His answer was a whisper as broken as a torn photograph, and Nicholas had not wanted to cause any more pain than he already had and began to think of ways to change the subject, but the king had apparently not finished. “Alsea was . . . determined,” Ragnarok recounted. “I had heard she had gone as far as to _vow_ she would never love the king. Inevitably, this made me want to pursue her more strongly than I had done anyone else, and it was only once I had fallen for her that she began to see me as someone other than the king . . . I think that was why she challenged me to a duel –”

“She really challenged you?”

Ragnarok’s teeth bared in a grin that could have been considered ferocious by someone else, but Nicholas saw that it was a gesture of great amusement. “She _defeated_ me.”

“No!” Nicholas said disbelievingly, smiling widely as his astonishment took over his face. “You were the best fighter in the Goblinlands, Rockstooth told me!”

“She still beat me.” 

“You let her win,” Nicholas accused.

He shook his head. “I was fighting for her hand in marriage. I gave that fight everything I had. However, she fought for the exact opposite reason, and was very determined not to lose."

“But . . .” the prince furrowed his eyebrows, “you _did_ marry her, did you not?”

“I did.”

Nicholas stared at him dumbly. “So then you did not lose . . .”

“I _did_ lose Nicholas,” Ragnarok told him softly, “but I only lost the fight. I had not realised until later that, in losing, I had won her heart. In her mind, a king could never be defeated, so when she had downed me . . . she had made me less of a king.”

“Then how did you find out she loved you?”

Ragnarok smiled wryly. “You are too young for that chapter in this story, boy.”

Nicholas opened his mouth to argue, but then clamped it shut as he realised what Ragnarok meant. His mouth curled downwards in disgust.

Ragnarok laughed. “Indeed, I remember that night like it was yesterday. Alsea arrived outside my bedchambers and –”

“ _Alright_ , Ragnarok,” Nicholas interjected with a grimace. “I know I am prying, but I do not wish to know about that part.”

“You are not prying,” Ragnarok assured, grinning. “I am surprised you had not asked me about her before.”

“I thought it would be in bad taste.”

He took a sip at his wine. “It would be, if it were anyone else.”

Nicholas’ chest quietly soared at the declaration. “So Queen Alsea did not keep her vow?”

“She did, actually,” Ragnarok chuckled. “Alsea knew I was king, and her loyalty to the crown and the kingdom was unwavering, but when she loved me, she loved me as her lifemate . . . she loved  _me_ – the goblin whose soul she had finally seen bared to her the very moment she defeated him. Alsea kept her vow because she never married King Ragnarok the Unbowed, she married Ragnarok. . . At least, that is how she defended herself on the day of our wedding.”

His laughter boomed around the study and Nicholas watched him in awe, having never before seen the goblin who raised him being so happy. Somewhere within him, the prince knew that this conversation was one he would remember for a very long time – perhaps even the rest of his life – as he took Ragnarok’s advice to heart.

 _Hermione told me she never lost a challenge_ , Nicholas reflected. _I told her that she would have to gain my trust, too, and that is how she replied. Yet I do already trust her_. He frowned inwardly.  _I have lost and she has won before the game had even begun. Perhaps this is good, though . . ._ Nicholas felt his smile spread like a sunrise across his face. _I need to first trust Hermione Granger if I have to bare my soul to her, after all._

 

** -o0o0o0o-**

****

Through the shutters at the window, thin slivers of moonlight bathed the whole room in an ethereal glow as Hermione Granger laid in her bed, wide awake, listening to the light snores that lofted their way through the air from one Ginevra Weasley’s bed. No matter how much Hermione tossed and turned, she found no position comfortable enough to chase away her restlessness.

Mrs. Weasley usually sent all the children to bed at promptly ten o’clock. However, when Harry and Hermione had emerged from the dining room, the hour had turned half-past eleven. The Weasley matriarch was _appalled_ and quickly marched the two upstairs where they were then accosted by the rest of the Weasley family whom Mrs. Weasley had naively assumed were fast asleep.

“How did you manage to get into the meeting?” Fred had asked, envious, but very excited.

“Yeah!” George joined in. “What happened?”

Ron had been jumping on the balls of his feet. “What were they talking about?”

“Who was there?” Ginny inquired, pulling on Hermione’s arm.

Their questions were like constant spellfire, giving no chance for speech or counterattack as they kept pummelling them. Sadly, Hermione and Harry gave them no answers as they had been expressly told not to discuss what they had found out with anyone – for now. All the Weasleys had begrudgingly accepted this after much dispute when they finally saw that the two were serious. All the Weasleys . . . all, but Ron.

He sulked and scowled and squabbled with them, trying to persuade them into telling him everything by reminding them that he was their best friend and _‘best friends tell each other everything, guys.’_ When his guilt-trip did not work, however, that was when the yelling began. Ron’s freckled face ignited in his anger, going as red as his hair, and he had called both Harry and Hermione _‘traitors’_ before Harry began to snap back.

Hermione had clenched her eyes shut at the sound of their argument and wondered how she had managed to gain two best friends whose tempers were just as bad as each other.

Harry was undeniably furious by the time he had told Ron that he was not allowed to be angry about this situation, especially considering the summer Harry had spent in absolute isolation. Ron was left stuttering and fumbling for a response and, after some moments, stormed off.

 _He’s just jealous_ , Hermione told herself. _He’ll be fine by morning._ But this would be the second time he had reacted so extremely to something not going his way. Ron was an amazing friend, absolutely loyal, and he had stood up for her and Harry on a great number of occasions, yet the amount of times his friendship wavered was getting exhausting for her heart. Hermione _always_ hoped that all he needed to do was cool off and he would be fine. But then that hope shattered gradually, the pieces scattering like a shower of rain as the days where they did not speak to one another went on. The hope rebuilt itself every time she saw him glancing over, though, only to shatter again when he went back to doing whatever he was doing before.

And the condition of her friendship with Ron only added to the list of reasons of why Hermione felt both numb and alive all at once.

On one hand – the one that Harry had clutched as tightly as he could as they both said goodnight to each other, with sorrow in their eyes, and surrender in their shoulders – Harry Potter had a piece of the soul of his fated enemy within the lightning-bolt scar in the middle of his forehead. If that was not bad enough, another one of these pieces – these Horcruxes – must have existed as, though the diary had been destroyed, something still kept Voldemort’s soul tethered to this world. 

On her other hand – the one that had gently clasped Prince Nicholas’ in greeting, the one that still pulsated as if it were electrified from the momentary brush against his young-blooded warmth – Hermione saw that between Edwin, and Prince Nicholas, and Prince Nicholas’ guardian (who she realised she had not even asked about) the amount of planning that seemed to have been put into preparing for the war meant they knew what they were doing, and they really wanted what was best for Harry – and herself, of course.

At the thought of Nicholas, Hermione’s cheeks began to bloom a scarlet-red, warming as if she were a new-born rose reaching for the sun. _He’s really nice to look at_ , Hermione thought, seeing his face in her mind’s eye. He was handsome; broad shouldered and long of limb – though not very muscular – with fine and straight coal-black hair neatly styled to be kept above his nape, and his eyes . . .

 _Merlin, his eyes_.

Silver like sickles was her first thought, though it did not give them any justice now that she had seen them light up with his gentle smile. The colour was deep, and no object could ever compare, not unless that object was as _alive_ as Nicholas’ eyes had been. It was a sea of silver.

 _I'm not thinking straight_ , she thought, thoroughly disgusted with herself, nearly letting out a groan as she slammed her head onto the pillow on which it rested.  _But Prince Nicholas . . ._

Hearing that small titbit about Nicholas’ wishes for his reign, what he wanted to do about magical creature rights, flicked a switch inside Hermione as her intrigue lit up like a candle. The small insight was enough for her to crave more. It was almost as if she was nourishing herself on his company, feeding on whatever he told her about himself, so she could be closer to him.

 _You’re pathetic_ , Hermione told herself, _absolutely pathetic._ Frustration darkened over her mind just as a grey cloud on a sweet summers day would. She wanted to write to her mother. She wanted to write to her father. She wanted to write to Daphne. To tell them all what had happened, and what it meant. She wanted to be comforted. But she could not write to them, she could not be comforted, because Prince Nicholas and Edwin had asked her to wait. 

Closing her eyes again, Hermione pondered over how quickly her mind had dissolved into a flurry of rushing thoughts and images – as wild as the Winged Keys from first-year had been when they attacked Harry – after Nicholas had departed from Grimmauld Place. The difference was profound compared with the almost heaven-like tranquillity of her thought processes when he was near.

Hermione turned over once again, the sheets rustling as she did. And just as she clenched her eyes shut to try to sleep again, a loud snore – a truck horn, really – had sounded from between Ginny Weasley’s lips, tearing through the room, and Hermione almost got up to smack her just so she would stop.

 _God, help me_ , Hermione pleaded, looking out at the half-moon and wishing it could perhaps hear her prayer.


	5. The Saviour's Hearing

Long before the first pale fingers of light pried his curtains apart, Harry was awake. He laid on his bed, thinking about the nightmares that had plagued his sleep, and the memory of Cedric Diggory’s dead eyes still wide open, forever staring, when Sirius knocked on his door and widened his deep blue eyes upon seeing that Harry had not been asleep. Without dwelling it on much, Sirius urged Harry to get ready for his Disciplinary Hearing as it would be taking place at exactly half-past ten. With a quick glance at the broken watch on his wrist, Harry saw that it was only a little past seven. He calmly went through the motions of his new daily routine; taking a shower, brushing his teeth, getting dressed – recalling that Sirius had told him to wear something more formal, so picking a plain white shirt and black trousers to wear under his school robes – and finally heading down to breakfast whilst allowing his unruly ebony hair to air dry.

The dining room was filled with people and chatter and laughter this morning.

Mrs. Weasley had served a large array of plates for breakfast; croissants, toast, hash browns, bacon, eggs, pork sausages, beans, and cups of tea, pumpkin juice, orange juice, or water to wash it all down. The sweet and savoury fresh smell of the food wafted over to Harry as he stood by the door, and his stomach grumbled.

With the exception of Kingsley who was notably absent, the rest of the Advance Guard were there. Tonks, the clumsy Auror that had taken quite a liking to Harry – well, to everyone really – threw him a cheeky wink as he approached the table. Harry was glad that _somebody_ had, at least, not changed the way they treated him after yesterday. Looking over to both the seats next to her, he saw that both were filled; Mad-Eye Moody sat on one side, while, surprisingly, Hermione Granger sat on the other.

His eyes inspected her pale face, the dark heavy bags under her eyes, as well as her dishevelled hair, and he felt pity creep up his chest. Harry may have been rather horrified to learn about the prophecies yesterday, but he was just as shocked as she must have been to learn that she was bonded-by-soul to a boy she had not even known existed before that day. Hermione had never been very romantically inclined, or at least that is what he had observed over the years. And this fact was starting to make a lot of sense to him as he considered what he knew from her first boyfriend (if anyone could really call him that), Viktor Krum. They were never an official couple as far as Harry was aware, though it was still quite obvious that Krum genuinely fancied Hermione . . .

 _Except Hermione didn’t ever look_   _fully_ _comfortable around him_ , Harry recalled. _Sure, she was really happy during the first part of the Yule Ball, before Ron said those things . . . but she was having a good time. And whenever Krum got a little too close while they danced, she always took a step back._ Harry had not known why she acted that way; he suspected it had something to do with the age difference between them, or that she was unaccustomed to receiving that kind of attention from a male, but now – as he had worked out – the bond she shared with the prince which linked her to only him may have been the reason

Harry thought of the chances. From everyone in the world that Hermione could have possible bonded to, she ended up bonded to the bloody  _future king!_ He did not blame Hermione for panicking, not one bit, because he would have panicked, too. _Hermione could be queen one day . . ._ The thought was striking and strange. _Hermione? Queen? Queen Hermione?_ Harry had grasped Hermione’s hand in an attempt to comfort her, and the tight grip she had responded with had clenched his heart just as much as it did his hand. She was so scared, he wanted nothing more than to shelter her away from everything until she felt alright again.

Later, he found that going to such lengths was not necessary, though he did not regret ever feeling it was. Prince Nicholas had been truly afraid, too. His voice shook with fearful tremors as he told her that he did not want to cause her any more distress. Harry knew boys around his age, and he knew how they were not often very understanding or noble, especially where it concerned girls. Taking his cousin Dudley as an example, Harry often heard him chatting quite rudely about the blonde neighbour who lived across the road from them; the sound of Dudley and Piers’ cruel laughter mingling over the crashing of cars on the television as they played on the SNES had angered Harry. And the idea of Prince Nicholas ever so much as _thinking_ about Hermione in the manner that Dudley and Piers gloated on about the neighbour made him quite indignant.

Harry approached the empty seat across from Hermione and pulled out the chair – _scraaaaape! –_ before seating himself upon it. Hermione’s blood-shot bronzed eyes glimpsed up at him briefly, only to then return her blank stare back to her half-eaten breakfast. Tonks had been looking between Harry and Hermione hopefully, and seemed disappointed. Everyone else gave both Harry and Hermione a range of concerned glances and Harry wished they could find it within themselves to just stop.

 _You’re not_ _helping_ , he thought harshly.

Every attempt he made to gain back Hermione’s attention was hindered by her resolve to keep her focus on her fork which she used to push around the uneaten sausages on her plate. Deciding on a more forceful method, Harry reached his foot across under the table to knock one slipper off her feet. When she looked up at him, the tired movement as slow as a hand on a clock face, Harry suddenly lost the words he had meant to say. _How can I ask her if she’s alright when it’s bloody obvious that she’s not?_ he asked himself. Adjusting accordingly, Harry felt it was his duty to at least whisper, “It’s going to be alright,” as some comfort.

Hermione, thankfully, smiled weakly at him. It was a grim smile; the sort you would give a lover’s gravestone, but Harry did not care. A smile was a smile. He cared even less when she mouthed his words right back to him, acknowledging him, letting him know that she would support him just as he would support her, and there was nothing more needed between them.

Breakfast passed in a blur after that. Harry ate as much as he could, which was not very much due to the nervous knots his stomach had tied itself into. Tonks had tried to make light of any conversation, trying to lure both Harry and Hermione into happiness with her humour, only to fail in the end.

Just as he was finishing his small meal, a knock sounded against the door for Grimmauld Place. Everyone turned their heads towards the sound, silence coating the room.

“I’ll go get it then, shall I?” Sirius hoisted himself from his seat at the head of the table and strode out into the hallway leading to the front door.  “Remember your manners now, all of you.”

Harry did not really give himself time to think about that statement before clutters were heard as Sirius unlocked the door and pulled it open. The short conversation at the door and during the walk back to the dining room was quiet, little murmurs here and there between him and the newcomers, but that was to be expected when Prince Nicholas and Lord Commander Desmond strolled into the room.

At the sight of the prince, many Order members surged to their feet and bowed respectfully. Harry and Hermione – after giving each other a shocked look – quickly followed suit. Giving it a little more thought, Harry realised this welcome was not really that surprising. Royals were often treated this way from what he had seen of the Muggle ones on the television at the Dursley home. Though, following the glance he gave towards Arthur Weasley who was wearing bright green robes, he could not help but think it was odd seeing Wizards and Witches, fully garbed in brightly coloured robes, bowing instead of Muggles in their usual formalwear.  

Prince Nicholas gave a single nod of acknowledgement, and this single action was somehow interpreted by everyone to mean they could sit back down. Sirius gave an awkward little wave of his hand towards Harry and Hermione, so Nicholas made his way to them. He had ditched the scaly green jacket and sword from yesterday and replaced it with some simple black dress robes made from expensive-looking velvet, but it was as he approached them with a pleasant smile that Harry finally noted the familiar look of exhaustion on the prince’s face, seen in the veiny redness seeping into the whites of his eyes along with the bags accompanying them. Most curious of all, however, were those fresh, bright-scarlet gashes between the left side of his chin and jaw, as well as across his left cheek, and another on his right eye where the skin had split. _What the hell has he been doing in the space of a night? Fighting trolls?_

Glancing over at Hermione momentarily, Harry noticed that the prince’s presence had breathed some life back into her; gladness inflated her eyes, bringing amber back to the irises. Meanwhile, Prince Nicholas kept his gaze on Hermione, just as Hermione kept hers on Prince Nicholas, and they both drank in the sights of each other like they were scorched and dying of thirst.

 _The soul bond_ , Harry realised. _It’s already affecting them._

Nicholas walked past Hermione, then, unsurprisingly, he pulled out the empty chair beside her. He indicated it and, with some hesitance in his voice, asked her, “May I?”

“It’s not my chair,” she told him amusedly, but still nodded.

As Nicholas seated himself, Harry saw his hand – the one not on the chair, and nearest to her – somewhat twitched when it nearly brushed against her knuckles, as if he was tempted to reach out and hold her hand.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “What happened to your face, Your–”

“ _Nicholas_.”

“ _Prince_ Nicholas,” Hermione stubbornly responded. “You’re hurt.”

He clucked his tongue at her persistence and lifted up a hand to stroke the largest wound he had, the one on his chin. “I – uh – well, I had a fight with someone.” 

“I thought you a little too mature for that.”

Lord Commander Desmond – who had followed Nicholas and stood next to him as Harry kept his attention on only Hermione and the prince – snorted. “If only.”

Prince Nicholas smiled widely at them both. “Make your fun. I had emerged the victor in that fight, and we –” he looked at Harry at this point, “we will have more victories today, I just know it.” 

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

The Ministry of Magic was a sight to behold.

Crowds of people rushed about, all dressed in different degrees of dress robes. Fireplaces to both sides of the large Atrium hall regularly deposited Ministry employees out of a flurry of explosive green flames that the Floo system was known for. Airplanes made out of parchment were enchanted to deliver messages, and they whizzed above Harry’s head while he – along with Prince Nicholas – followed Mr. Weasley and Lord Commander Desmond as they meandered to the elevator system that was operational right at the front of the hall.

The fountain erected in the middle of the Atrium steadily splashed and hissed, and Harry took a few seconds to marvel at the golden forms of a Wizard, Witch, Centaur, Goblin, and House-Elf. They were frozen in position and had been, apparently, recently polished from the shine and lack of any rust or grime on them.

“I had not seen in it in person,” Nicholas said lowly. “I had thought the prejudice was exaggerated. _The Fountain of Magical Brethren_?” His eyes flashed with anger. “It should be called the Fountain of Wizarding Supremacy.”

“Prejudice?” Harry stared at him confusedly. “But it includes other magical creatures – not just Wizards.”

“Look at it properly.” Nicholas glimpsed pointedly back at the statues. “Look at how the other creatures are gazing adoringly at the Witch and Wizard. And look how the Wizard is raised on a higher platform than everyone else, including even the Witch.”

Harry focused back on the fountain. He eyed the five figures closely and saw that Prince Nicholas right. The elderly Wizard with his mighty long beard was shaped to be right in the middle of all the other creatures – water spouting out the wand that he had pointed high as some sort of trophy – while everyone around him, including the Witch, beheld him with wide eyes and smiles like he was the most wondrous thing in the universe.

It unsettled him.

When the quartet had finally crossed the Atrium and successfully reached the elevators, Harry understood why they had left Grimmauld Place so early despite their instant magical methods of travel. It was quite apparent that Harry’s hearing was taking place at peak time in the Ministry of Magic when they had been forced to wait about ten minutes with the crowd gathered in front of the elevators, all wearing their overcoats and carrying their briefcases and waiting their turn, before they managed to get themselves onto the contraption which would take them directly to where they needed to go.

Harry was roughly jerked as the elevator rapidly jolted to the right, very nearly losing his footing if it were not for Prince Nicholas who had swiftly grabbed him from under his arm and, thankfully, helped him regain his balance.

Some dozen seconds passed before the lift halted at a floor and a silvery female voice announced, “Level Two – The Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” This was where a panicked Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped inside and whispered hastily into Mr. Weasley’s ear.

The ginger man’s freckled face fell slightly before he tried to smile – the expression appearing to be more of a grimace – as he calmly turned to Lord Commander Desmond. “The timing for the hearing has been altered.”

“When is it?” Harry asked.

Mr. Weasley sighed. “Right now, as it happens.”

Desmond narrowed his eyes in a small indication of anger. “It is illegal to do such a thing without informing the defendant.”

“Are you really surprised, Lord Commander?” Nicholas quietly inquired. “It sounds like a reasonable thing to expect from a government of criminals.”

 

** -o0o0o0o- **

 

Mr. Weasley had wished them all good luck and backed away after delivering them to their destination as he was not allowed inside. Desmond loudly knocked on the great wooden doors, waiting only a few moments before permitting himself entry. Harry followed behind the Lord Commander with Prince Nicholas following right after him.

Taken aback by the sheer number of people present in the circular courtroom, Harry’s heart thumped a bit harder against his chest as spiders crawled around his stomach, disturbing the sparse breakfast within. To the left of where they had entered were ascending stands, which seemed to be holding a little more than fifty people who were wearing either burgundy or black robes, placed in a semi-circle; with the highest stands right at the back, and those stands descending one by one until they reached past nearly a quarter of the chamber where the lowest stand was on floor level. The Minister for Magic – Cornelius Fudge – had been seated in a small box between the halfway-point for the stands, segregating those who wore black robes to one side with those who wore burgundy robes to the other. His desk was raised and practically screamed his authority out to all those who wished to hear it.

Hush befell the chamber as all eyes turned to Harry, Prince Nicholas, and Lord Commander Desmond. Minister Fudge, the portly little man with grey hair, was the first to speak up.

“Mr. Potter,” he addressed clearly. “You’re late.”

“He would not have been if it were not for this sudden change in schedule,” Desmond responded.

Fudge turned his nose up. “And who are you?”

“I am –”

_Bang!_

Harry quickly spun to see Dumbledore calmly walking into the chamber, the heavy door behind him being the source of the loud noise marking his entrance. The spiders in Harry’s stomach steadied slightly at the sight of his Headmaster.

“Dumbledore!” Fudge’s eyes began to dart around in his nervousness.

“Good morning,” Dumbledore greeted, his deep rumbling voice bright and composed. “I would apologise for my tardiness, Minister Fudge, but it seems like I had been misinformed about when exactly this hearing would be taking place.”

“An owl with the notice of this change was sent out this morning,” Fudge said timidly.

“I’m sure it was.” Once Dumbledore reached Desmond, he smiled and shook his hand. “Lord Commander Desmond, I trust you are doing well.”

“As well as I can be, Dumbledore.” The words were spoken much icier than Harry thought was necessary. He wondered if the revelations of the day before factored into Desmond’s cold demeanour.

“L–Lord Commander?” Fudge exclaimed. “From the Druid Union?”

“The very same,” said Dumbledore. “He and I will be acting as joint attorney for Mr. Potter today.”

Everyone was quiet as they waited for Fudge to respond.

“S-Surely you have bigger issues to attend to, Lord Commander,” said Fudge. “I am surprised to see you in the country without any notice to the Ministry.”

“I appreciate your concern for my workload, Minister, but this takes precedence,” Desmond responded. “You see, I was also surprised when the International Confederation urged me to investigate into the account of Dumbledore’s dismissal, as well as other alleged miscarriages of power in Wizarding Britain’s justice system. They had told me they had suspected this for many years now.” His orotund words seemed to fly in the air like bullets, hitting Fudge again and again, making the man bleed sweat. “As for not giving any notice, I had thought it was common knowledge that this is my home country. I returned for a personal reason, and that reason – who happens to be a good friend of Mr. Potter’s – told me about his hearing today, so I thought it would be best to work as his defence to see your standards of procedure for myself.”

“But you are part of the Druid Union!” Fudge cried. “You vow to be unbiased in national matters!”

Desmond smiled. “That is indeed a vow I have taken. By my life, as it happens. If I do show partiality in any way, you will be made instantly aware, Minister Fudge, so you can be sure that I will try my best to remain neutral." He briefly glanced at Dumbledore before he motioned for Harry to walk to the large wooden chair placed directly in the middle of the chamber, opposite of Fudge. The bottom and back of the chair were covered in chains that vibrated ominously as Harry stepped closer to them, but they appeared to calm once he had sat down. “Inhumane fools,” Desmond muttered to Nicholas who hummed in agreement while walking himself to the witness stands placed to the side of the courtroom.

Harry, now in full view of everyone in the court, eyed the faces of the strangers dressed in black or burgundy. They stared right back at him, some in curiosity and some with blatant disgust. Sitting there with his twiddling hands in his lap, he felt like he was on display, like he was only here to be a spectacle – a _freak_. Percy Weasley – all ginger hair and brown freckles on a pale face – looked the same as he did last year, perhaps a bit taller, yes, but the same . . . yet he was acting as if he had never seen Harry before in his life. The parchment in his hands seemed to deserve more of his interest than the boy who had saved his little sister’s life.

Desmond crossed his hands behind his back. “What are the charges against Mr. Potter?”

Fudge jumped from the sudden break from silence and pulled the spectacles hanging from his neck onto his face, reading from the piece of parchment laying on his desk, “Harry James Potter – resident at number four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey – knowingly, and in full-awareness of the unlawfulness of his action, produced a Patronus in the presence of a muggle in a muggle-inhabited area. This, as we all know, is a direct offence of paragraph C of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, and also section thirteen of the International Confederation’s Statute of Secrecy.” He pulled off his spectacles and leaned forward. “Does the defendant deny this?”

As Desmond had told him to during his brief visit at Grimmauld Place before they made their way to the Ministry, Harry turned his eyes to the Lord Commander, waiting for an indication that approved of answering any question given to him. Desmond gave a small nod, so he answered, “No, I don’t deny it.”

“Were you aware that it is illegal to use magic outside the barriers of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”

Desmond nodded again.

“Yes,” Harry replied through gritted teeth. He was trying with all his might to not shout exactly why he had to use it, knowing how pathetic he would look to the prince who would probably think him stupid for not following the simple instruction of _‘don’t say anything unless I give you the signal,’_ given to him by Desmond. 

Fudge’s chest puffed out, and Harry suddenly felt the need to acquire a large needle which he could stick into the glorified pigeon. The Minister peered around at the people beside him, smiling widely as if Harry had told some joke. “Wizards and Witches of the Wizengamot, I do not see any reason for Mr. Potter to use such a spell in a muggle environment. He had violated the laws put in place for his own safety as well as the safety of others, in full awareness of the prohibitions placed on such magic-use, therefore -"

“He must have had a reason, Minister.” Dumbledore’s voice overruled Fudge. “I am sure you have the full intention of asking the defendant why he had felt the charm was necessary.”

“A defendant has the right to present his case as per the Wizard’s Rights Act of 1897,” Desmond quoted. “I also believe your own Wizengamot Charter of Rights supports this.”

“Mr. Potter is well within his rights to defend himself, of course.” The voice of the woman who spoke firmly carried through the chamber. Her striking blue eyes, which were coated with barely masked frustration as she gave a brief look of annoyance to the Minister, were piercing. She appeared to be a little under forty years of age, with sleek red hair tucked neatly into a business-like bun, and Harry thought she must have been very high-up in the Ministry since her seat was right beside Fudge. Her robes were also the same colour as his, though she also wore a burgundy sash over hers. She turned to Fudge expectantly. “Minister?”

Fudge laughed unsurely. “Thank you, Madam Bones,” he said quickly. “Mr. Potter may present his case.”

Dumbledore smiled impartially and asked Harry, “Why did you use the Patronus?”

“Because Dementors attacked me.”

Laughs exploded around the room. Fudge shook his head and smiled condescendingly down at Harry. “There can be no Dementors in the muggle districts of Britain. It’s simply not possible!”

Desmond raised an eyebrow. “Then I’m sure you will have no trepidations in allowing us to present you his memory of the event . . .”

The Minister spluttered. “We don’t have the resources available for the display of memories in court.”

“That is shocking, Minister Fudge. Every magical justice system in Europe is _required_ to have a pensieve on hand at all times,” Desmond admonished with a shake of his head. “No matter, I have a pensieve of my own.”

With that, Dumbledore stepped back while Desmond reached into his pocket and pulled out a miniature bowl from his pocket, enlarging it as he kept it levitated in the air. The Lord Commander also took out another object, this time pulling out a small vial – inside of which a smoky-white substance flew around like gas – that Harry recognised as the memories that had been extracted from his mind earlier in the morning. Desmond poured these memories into the bowl and, instantly, smoke rose above the basin and spread into a large cloud in the middle of the courtroom.

“For the benefit of the Court Scribe,” said Desmond, and Harry noticed how Percy perked up with his quill and parchment, “this is Evidence Number One, memory of one Harry James Potter – the defendant – from the 2ndof August, 1995.”

The court viewed the memories of the Dementor attack in relative silence. When the memory ended with the arrival of Mrs. Figg, and the smoke cleared from above, the Wizengamot rose into uproar. A stout and haughty-looking woman who much resembled a ghastly toad where she sat on the other side of Fudge jumped to her feet, her black robes sagging a little. “How can you prove this memory is not falsified, Lord Commander?” her high and sickly-sweet voice demanded.

“I have a witness who can affirm the truth of the memories,” Dumbledore brightly responded in place of Desmond. “I asked her to remain outside – shall I fetch her?”

The woman with the monocle – Madam Bones – sighed loudly. She lifted her hand and took off her monocle, letting it drop to the table in front of her with a soft _clink_. “Quickly, Professor,” she told him, before leaning over to Fudge and meaningfully whispering in his ear, pointedly glancing at both Desmond and Dumbledore as she did. Fudge seemed to be taking in her words and, with eyes drooping to the floor as if he was a puppy who had been reprimanded for leaving a yellow stain on its owner’s favourite carpet, he appeared to be quite regretful.  

Dumbledore’s footsteps tapped on the floor as he walked to the door. He opened the door – which creaked slightly – and quietly mumbled something before stepping back in with the soft shuffles of Mrs. Figg’s feet nervously following behind him. The door made another great _thud_ as it closed, and it caused the old woman to jump. Desmond conjured a chair for her right next to Harry and gave her a smile as he motioned for her to sit. Surprisingly, two patches of red grew on Mrs. Figg’s face as she coyly thanked the Lord Commander.

“What is your full name?” Madam Bones was apparently taking the lead in the interrogation.

“Arabella Doreen Figg.”

“And what is your relation to Mr. Potter?”

“I am his neighbour,” she meekly replied.

“There are no records of any witches living in Little Whinging!” Fudge excitedly claimed.

Mrs. Figg huffed. “I wouldn’t be registered. I’m a squib.”

“And squibs can just so be able to see Dementors, can’t they?” Fudge clenched his teeth. “You will leave information about your parentage with my assistant.”

Bones coughed once and continued her questioning. “Can you describe the events that occurred on the 2ndof August?”

The story spilled from Mrs. Figg’s mouth and Harry closed his eyes. He remembered the feeling of the Dementors approaching, he could still hear the sound of his mother’s last scream ringing in his ears, haunting him, and he recalled how relieved he had been when he was finally able to grasp onto a memory of Ron and Hermione – their happy, smiling faces – and had cast his Patronus to ward the dark creatures away from him and his cousin.

“And is that _exactly_ what happened?”

Harry opened his eyes at the sound of Bones’ voice.

“Yes,” Mrs. Figg answered.

The red-headed Ministry official nodded, her face still but for the frown she wore the very moment she turned to Fudge. “Minister Fudge, I would like to give the witness leave, if you do not have any further questions to ask.”

“Yes, yes,” Fudge responded numbly. “She may leave.”

Lord Commander Desmond offered Mrs. Figg his hand as she stood, escorting her out of the courtroom. Her usual shuffle was leisurely, but Harry could have sworn she was going even slower as she hung on Desmond’s arm. The door creaked open, and then shut with the same _thud_ , and Desmond returned to his place beside Harry, regarding Fudge with a look of casual expectancy as though he was merely waiting for a barista to hand him his coffee.

When Fudge made no move to say anything, Bones pointedly stated the facts that they now knew, “Minister, we have a piece of evidence – Potter’s memory – which shows the presence of Dementors in Little Whinging. We also have a witness who testified the events exactly as they were shown in the memory . . .”

A girlish cough from the toad woman begged all attention to turn towards her. “I hope, Madam Bones, you are not supporting this claim of Dementors being present in a muggle area. The Ministry of Magic is solely responsible for the actions of all Dementors in British Domain, so – I apologise for my frankness – it sounds like you are asserting that the Ministry had issued an attack on Mr. Potter.”

“That would be a most curious idea, Senior Undersecretary,” said Bones with a tight-lipped smile, “but it was not what I was asserting at all . . . in fact, I had not thought of it that way until you had mentioned it.”

The toad woman sunk into her chair, and Harry thought he saw a tinge of redness creep onto her large cheeks.

“However, that is besides the point,” Bones continued. “Two Dementors have been explicitly proven to have been present in Little Whinging. Consequently, Mr. Potter acted completely within his rights, stated clearly in clause seven of the Degree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, which allows for a Witch or Wizard to use magic in the presence of Muggles in exceptional circumstances such as when their life is in danger.” With that, Bones raised her voice so it boomed around the chamber. “All those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges against him?”

Many hands – many of which belonged to those wearing black robes – raised, and, after a moment, Madam Bones also raised her hand. Harry noted how many more hands were lifted from their owner’s burgundy-clothed laps at the sight of Madam Bones’ opinion.

Ten seconds passed and the hands dropped. Madam Bones then asked: “Those in favour of convicting the accused?”

Considerably lesser hands raised this time, but Minister Fudge who had been silent for some time also extended his arm upwards, followed by some others. Harry happily observed how the people who thought he was innocent had the majority of the vote. Fudge gripped his gravel and hesitated for a second before he lifted it just a bit, declaring, “Cleared of all charges!” and bringing the gravel down with a _bang_ – the sound resonating as a note of reluctant finality.

Harry grinned, looking over at Prince Nicholas who gave him a little smirk. There was a hint of mischief in the shine of the prince’s silver eyes as he indicated for Harry to turn his attention back to Desmond. Suddenly, with the shroud of anxiety that had covered him from the thought of his Disciplinary Hearing now lifting from him, Harry was reminded that Prince Nicholas and Lord Commander Desmond planned to do a whole lot more than just get him cleared.

A great rumble of chatter had begun after the final judgement, and Desmond had to lift his hand in a signal to gain everyone’s attention. He was successful. The robed Witches and Wizards were silenced within seconds and they all waited for him to speak. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Wizengamot,” he began, “I have many important matters to discuss with you regarding the position of Britain on the International Confederation of Wizards. There are many sitting members of the Confederation who condemn the decisions made by Britain in the past few years, and more so in the past few weeks. They worry about the danger of Britain – one of the leading powers in the Wizarding World – as there have reportedly been claims of the return of a Dark Lord and, in their view, these claims have been met with nothing but contempt and malice for those making them rather than any sort of investigation into why they would make such great declarations.” Fudge shuffled uncomfortably when Desmond looked at him. “You know, I see it as quite fitting that both of the people who claim the return of the Dark Lord are in this room today.” The Lord Commander glanced pointedly between Harry and Dumbledore. “I was asked to interrogate the witnesses for the International Confederation, but I find it would be far more efficient to do so in front of the Wizen–”

“That won’t be necessary!” Fudge quickly protested. “Our Department of Magical Law Enforcement is fully capable of conducting any investigation that has been ordered by the Confederation.”

“Unfortunately, I was asked to personally complete the investigation, Minister,” said Desmond. He turned to face Dumbledore. “If you can seat yourself, Professor Dumbledore, I will be asking both you and Mr. Potter a series of questions regarding the supposed return of the Dark Lord.”

Dumbledore’s twinkly blue eyes danced with mischief. “I would think an extraction of memories would serve well as testimony for Mr. Potter, don’t you?”

“Mr. Potter?” Desmond asked, “Are you willing?”

Harry remembered the question from yesterday, and all the warnings that had come with them. But before he could answer in the affirmative, as he had done yesterday, Fudge heatedly interjected, “This - This is absurd, Lord Commander!” His voice was a quivering leaf about to fall off of the branch on which it was born. “A complete waste of valuable Ministry time, I tell you!”

“Some may say a Wizengamot trial – with all its members present, may I add – in which the defendant sits in the High Court like a serial killer for the simple breach of magic usage is a waste of valuable Ministry time,” said Desmond. “The safety of the British people is where your time _should_ be placed, and it just so happens that this concerns the safety of the British people.” Minister Fudge gaped, but Desmond did not seem to care as he turned back to Harry, lifting his wand up to Harry’s forehead and clearly stating: “Memory extraction from one Harry James Potter.”

Harry waited for the familiar feeling of Desmond in his mind, but it did not come. The only person in his mind was still himself, yet the tip of Desmond’s cold wand pressed against his forehead was hard to ignore. Suddenly, a voice filled the dark expanse . . .

 _"You have done well, Harry_.” It was strange; Desmond’s voice was disembodied, ghost-like, and far softer than his usual tone. Through this, Harry resisted the urge to smile at the praise the man gave him when Desmond quickly instructed, _“Don’t make any indication that I’m talking to you. They all believe I am looking for memories.”_

 _“Are you?”_ Harry asked inwardly. _“Going to look for the memories, that is?”_

 _“I’m sorry, but yes,”_ Edwin told him. _“I had no intention of doing this to you again –”_

_“It’ll be worth it. This will help the Ministry stop denying everything happening around them.”_

A pause. _“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”_

Before Harry could ask him what he meant, the Lord Commander entered his mind, the feeling similar to a body diving headfirst into water. His mind, now, was a book that Desmond quickly flitted through, and Harry closed his eyes to help him find what he was looking for. Pulling up the day of the Third Task, Harry brought that particular page forward to where Desmond’s prying fingers were currently searching. Once the Lord Commander had grasped it, Harry felt him tug it away, back to where he had dived in, to the forefront of Harry’s mind, to where his wand was still positioned against Harry’s forehead. With all the grace and steady hands of a brain surgeon, Desmond drew the memory from Harry’s mind. The weight of the memory in his mind must have been great as, when it was lifted away from him, writhing like a worm pulled from soil, Harry was left lightheaded. He whirled his head to look at the thin and glowing white thread hanging from the point of Desmond’s wand, and he was amazed. _The proof of Voldemort being back is right there_ , he thought, astonished. _Right there in physical form._

Desmond jerked his wand, releasing the thread from its attachment, and it remained suspended in the air, steadily dropping towards the floor, the lightest of all feathers. Before it could, Desmond had guided it towards the pensieve bowl which was still floating in front of the Wizengamot. Once again, it released a cloud of smoke that rose into the air and created the sort of experience Harry associated with television – ironic as he did not see this as entertainment.

The events played out exactly as they had months ago. And they enraptured everyone who had not seen them before, including Dumbledore who had leaned forward while watching.

Harry and Cedric arrived at the Graveyard.

A chilling voice demanded, _“Kill the spare!”_

Cedric was murdered.

And Peter Pettigrew – someone most Ministry officials believed dead – was the one to kill him. Many Ministry officials in the room gasped at the sight of him, recognising him instantly due to the memorial made for him in the Ministry Atrium, standing as a remembrance for the ‘sacrifice’ he had made fifteen years ago that led to the capture of Sirius Black who had been imprisoned for the betrayal of Lily and James Potter as well as the murder of another twelve Muggles. There was no time for the shock to subside, however . . .

Peter Pettigrew cast several spells to bind Harry against a tombstone and began a ritual to bring back Lord Voldemort.

Some turned away when Pettigrew sliced his own hand clean off his body.

There was nothing but silence when the horrid form of Voldemort finally appeared. He was in the body of a twisted baby, virtually harmless when you did not count his ugliness, but as his tiny body was dropped into the sizzling cauldron, some members of Wizengamot still gasped in fear.  Then – as Voldemort rose out of the cauldron in a ball of black smoke which cleared to reveal a brand new body, two slits for a nose on a ghostly pale face, and angry red eyes – the screams of horror in the courtroom startled Harry.

Voldemort’s raspy voice called for Pettigrew to approach, and he pulled the pathetic man’s arm – the one that had not been cut off – towards him, tapping his wand upon the Dark Mark found on it. His call was answered not seconds after, and many Death Eaters surrounded him, but Voldemort was not happy. He ripped Lucius Malfoy’s mask off and this drew loud, shocked, gasps from many, and those many were hushed as everyone listened more intently to the conversation between the elderly Malfoy and the Dark Lord where the latter was scolded for his cowardly behaviour.

Once the confrontation was over, and Harry landed back at the Quidditch Pitch with Cedric’s body, the fog of Harry’s memory ebbed away to nothing. Amongst the sheer silence of everyone contemplating how this would affect them, Madam Bones took action and angrily called out to the Aurors stood at either side of the Wizengamot, “Arrest Lucius Malfoy!”

They did not move, both gawking at her stupidly.

 _“NOW!”_ she bellowed.

Moving to do as she bid, they were only halted by Fudge. “Overruled!” he shouted. “We don’t yet know if the memories are real, Madam Bones!”

“They still warrant an investigation, Minister!”

“No, they do not,” Fudge said hurriedly. “They’re lies, all lies. Potter –”

“Lord Commander!” Madam Bones ignored anything Fudge had to say as she asked Desmond, “Were there any signs of the memories being tampered?”

The Wizengamot concentrated their attention to Desmond who pretended to contemplate for a few seconds. _He’s probably doing that to make sure no one gets too suspicious_ , Harry reckoned. _He can’t answer too quickly, that’s all_. . .

“No,” Desmond answered eventually. “The memories were not foggy, and they ran without any distortions or time lapses.”

Fudge’s pudgy face was turning red, and veins were popping from his forehead. “That doesn’t prove the boy hasn’t altered his memories!”

“I don’t deny that,” said Desmond.

Harry snapped his head to the Lord Commander, betrayal in every inch of his expression. He had thought Desmond believed Harry about Voldemort.

_SLAM!_

Madam Bones irately clapped her hands down on the table before her. “Lucius Malfoy is a person of interest as long as the evidence that shows him so is not proven to be altered!” She turned to the Aurors once again. “Arrest him!”

The Aurors sprinted past the seated Harry and left the courtroom as quickly as they were able. A cloud lifted from Harry, making him feel weightless, as the pleasure of knowing that the elder Malfoy was most likely going to be interrogated, and, hopefully, get sent to Azkaban, filled him to the brim of his being.

 _"MADAM BONES!”_ Fudge roared, standing to his feet in an attempt to menacingly tower over the woman.

The attempt was made hilarious when Bones swiftly followed suit and easily towered over Fudge, her significantly taller height and icy words backing her dominance over him. “Tell me why you are so sure the memories are faked, Minister. What evidence do you have? What experience over my twelve years in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – five of which I have spent as its Head – makes your claims superior to my own? Or even the Lord Commander’s? We all know of his capabilities in our lawful principles, he’s a Druid for Merlin’s sake!”

Fudge gestured wildly towards Dumbledore. “Dumbledore wants to be Minister for Magic. He’s after my job, everyone knows –”

“I don’t _care_ what everybody knows!” Bones yelled, some tendrils of her auburn hair flew free of the neat bun they were confined in. “I want to know what, categorically, leads you to believe the memories are faked.”

“I would remind you that you are speaking to the _Minister for Magic_ , Madam Bones!” the toad woman shrilly snapped, bouncing up in her seat.

“And I would remind you _both_ that any matters regarding the law are  _my_ responsibility,” Bones harshly retorted. “Tell me, both of you, how Harry Potter would know what Peter Pettigrew – a man who supposedly died fifteen years ago – looks like?”

“There’s that memorial in the Atrium!” Fudge loudly, desperately, reasoned. “We have a picture of Pettigrew there. Besides that, Potter may have found another picture of Pettigrew. It is no secret that James and Lily Potter were friends with him.”

Harry did not know whether to be impressed or disgusted. This was the single most acceptable thing Fudge had said all day, but he was only saying it to discredit Harry’s memories, still doing all he could to deny Voldemort’s return.

Bones shook her head. “Then why does the memory show Pettigrew to be clearly in his late-thirties? How can a fifteen-year-old boy know how to fake memories so well that he had been able to successfully imagine a man’s weight gain and grey hair so accurately?” Her snarled words made Fudge sink into his seat in an attempt to create some distance been him and her piercing gaze.

“He . . . Potter’s had help from Dumbledore and Lord Commander Desmond,” he spluttered.

“Where is your evidence?” Bones sharply inquired.

Fudge had no answer, and he looked more like an injured puppy as the seconds ticked by.

“We were presented these memories by the Lord Commander of the Druid Union, Minister. He took the liberty to extract them with all of us as his witness. Let me make this clear, if any of you do not think the memories are legitimate, you will do so at your own peril. Insulting the competence of the Druids would be to also greatly offend the International Confederation.” Bones regarded everyone around her with a level of disdain that made Harry wonder why she worked here if she did not like them. Surely, her job must be miserable. “Scrimgeour,” she called out to a man sitting across to her right, a few seats down. He had bushy eyebrows and looked rather rugged with his yellowish-brown hair and protruding frown. “Was it Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt leading the Sirius Black case?”

Harry breathed a little faster at the mention of his godfather’s name, excitement building in his chest at the realisation that it was being said in a court of law. Impulsively, Harry focused copiously on the conversation.

“Yes,” said Scrimgeour.

“Then gather whatever files they have – particularly, the original transcripts of his court hearings – and look over them for any discrepancies,” Bones directed, about to turn back to the Minister to give more orders when . . .

Scrimgeour frowned. “We do not have the transcripts of the court hearings, Madam Bones.”

Bones slowly faced Scrimgeour again, face lit like a fuse in barely concealed outrage. _“What?”_ she hissed. “Why not?”

“I’m afraid I do not know why, Madam,” he replied, seemingly indifferent to her increasing ire.

“Do not – you _do not know_?” The words were repeated through gritted teeth and a scowl which clearly displayed her disgust with the man.

Scrimgeour only rolled his eyes. “They were absent before I was involved. I wouldn’t blame Tonks or Shacklebolt either since I was the one who assigned them the case. Unfortunately, I was not in office at the time of Black’s capture – just like you, I should add – so I cannot help you, personally.”

“Well then,” Bones narrowed her eyes at Scrimgeour and then turned to Fudge, “memories have always been better than mere records.”

“W-What?” Fudge stammered.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly at him. “Won't you allow your memories of the trial to be extracted, Minister Fudge? You have told everyone how you had been working in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes and had been the first to arrive on scene after the alleged murder of Peter Pettigrew,” Bones spoke slowly, as if she was speaking to a child. “I am assuming you were present for his trial.”

 _Maybe he was, if the trial happened in his imagination_ , Harry thought with a grimace.

“I – That’s not – I wasn’t –”

Bones glared at the sight and sound of Fudge’s pathetic protests. “You haven’t any right to refuse me, Minister. I have the authority to issue the relevant warrants.”

Beside him, Desmond briefly whispered something to Dumbledore, but Dumbledore only frowned and grabbed the Lord Commander by the arm, shaking his head, trying to stop him from doing something. Desmond ignored the warning. “Madam Bones?” he called. “I believe I can offer you some information on Sirius Black’s trial.”

Bones spread her arms out in a mockingly eager gesture. “I would love to hear anything at this point, Lord Commander.”

He nodded. “I came across this only recently, but it appears that Sirius Black had not been given a fair trial – in fact, he was not given a trial at all.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she snapped her eyes to Fudge. “Is that true?” she demanded.

“I – I don’t know,” Fudge replied, about ready to cry. “I only testified with my memory of the capture. I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t permitted clearance for anything else –” He flinched when Madam Bones brought her hands out in front of her, clawed and juddering from her resistance to resorting to violence. Her blue eyes were a tsunami promising destruction as she stared at Fudge with hatred; Harry actually thought she would strangle him until she closed her eyes, breathed through her nose, lowered her hands, and then faced Desmond once again.

“How did you come across this information?” A hint of suspicion topped the question.

“When Sirius Black had proved it to me himself.”

In a matter of seconds, the noise level in the chamber raised again, and everything was rowdy; many within the Wizengamot began to shout, and even jeer at Desmond. Harry was shocked at how animalistic these people could be. He was sure they would have begun to throw tomatoes, but then . . .

_Boom!_

_Bang!_

Silence.

Madam Bones stood with one foot on top of her chair, and the other on top of the slightly higher table, her wand pointed high in the air – the living image of the powerful Wizard from the Fountain of Magical Brethren – with some slivers of smoke rising from the tip where the Wizard’s wand had sprouted water. The woman lowered her wand, gazing intently at Desmond as she asked, “You know where he is?” And for a single fleeting moment, Harry detected an inflection of hope in the softening of her voice.

“I do,” said Desmond.

Bones faltered slightly. “And he’s – you claim he’s innocent of the crimes against him?”

“I do.”

Harry knew he was breaking the rules Desmond had clearly laid out for him in the morning, but he thought,  _bugger it_ , and went for his instinct to speak up for his godfather. “He _is_ innocent, Madam Bones,” he told her. “Sirius wasn’t the Secret Keeper for my parents, Worm – _Pettigrew_ was. Pettigrew was the one who betrayed them.”

Bones stared at him, intensely searching for any lie, yet Harry did not break his gaze no matter how intimidated he felt. “What you just said is very serious, Mr. Potter,” she emphasised. “Why do you believe he was not the Secret Keeper?”

     “I met Sirius at the end of my third-year,” Harry admitted. “He confronted Pettigrew. And Pettigrew confessed to me he was the one to betray my parents and kill those twelve Muggles. He confessed he’d framed Sirius for it all and hidden himself away as an animagus.”

Bones’ face caved in what he thought was remorse before the expression melted away like ice in the sun, making him doubt it was ever there in the first place. “Are you in contact with him at the moment?” she asked, tiredly lowering herself from her raised position.

Harry finally looked at Desmond who nodded at him to answer truthfully.

“Yes.”

Bones sat back in her seat, placing her elbows on top of the table in front of her, lowering her face into her palms, and she began to wearily rub her forehead. “Seeing that no trial was given to him in the first place –” Bones cast a sharp look as Fudge, “Tell Siri – Lord Black. Tell Lord Black the Ministry is willing to give him an unbiased trial.”

“I don’t believe Mr. Potter will have to tell him anything, Madam,” Desmond interjected. “I am prepared to personally escort Lord Black to the Ministry for the justice that had been pilfered from him. Will a week from now be a suitable day for the trial?”

“Weasley?” Madam Bones inquired at the ginger below her.

Percy pulled out a tiny book from his chest pocket and flipped through the pages, his spectacles dropping down his nose as he did. “There are only a few meetings –”

“Cancel them, or rearrange them if they’re important,” Bones instructed him. “Anything else?”

“No, Madam.”

Bones nodded at the Lord Commander. “A week from now will be fine, then.”

Desmond glimpsed at Dumbledore as he said, with a hint of question in his tone, “I will be acting as Lord Black’s attorney . . .”

Dumbledore bowed his head in allowance.

“Do you approve of the proceeding, Minister Fudge?”

The combination of the expectant manner of Desmond’s query as well as the number of heads that turned to the rather quiet Minister for his answer caused Fudge to nod frantically. “Yes . . . the trial of S-Sirius Black . . . in a week.”

Excitement bubbled in Harry, threatening to spill anytime soon. The trial would allow Sirius to prove himself innocent. And once he was free he would be in a much better position to look after Harry. Privet Drive would become a distant memory and Grimmauld Place would be his new reality.

“Very good,” said Desmond. “And what is your verdict on the memories of Lord Voldemort’s return?”

Fudge choked. He was about to rise from his seat, probably intending to indignantly reject the very idea, but he was halted by Madam Bones’ hand which gestured for him to remain seated.

“I’m afraid –”

 _Oh no_ , Harry grumbled inwardly. Madam Bones’ first words already diminished the hope Harry had in the Ministry.

“–there is not enough conclusive evidence for it to be sensible to cause a nationwide panic,” she rationalised.

“Understandable,” Desmond concurred.

Bones gave a single grateful nod. “Right now, I will place the D.M.L.E on high alert. Lucius Malfoy will be interrogated about his whereabouts on the 24thof June. Any evidence collected from the questioning will be sent to you if deemed relevant to the Sirius Black case. Nothing will be announced outside of this room.”

Harry was about to angrily yell at her, but Desmond spoke first. “I thank you for your time. However, there is just one more thing . . .” Trailing off, Desmond swiveled his head to Prince Nicholas who remained quietly seated in the witness stands.

There was nothing except dispassion on the prince’s sharp face as he stretched his legs out to stand amongst the silence and curious gazes of the Wizengamot. He sauntered gracefully down the steps, hardly making any noise, and made his way to the middle of the courtroom, just in front of Harry and directly facing the Minister. Harry thought Nicholas would greet the people in front of him, as he did with Harry and Hermione yesterday, but it seemed the prince was not in the mood for any meaningless chit-chat today.

Clearing his throat once, Prince Nicholas made history, “I, Nicholas of the House of Westerly, hereby declare my rightful claim by blood and magic to the Crown of Avalon in the presence of the High Court.”

Harry did not really understand what was going on here; all he knew was that Prince Nicholas’ voice was ringing, and the sudden swirling wind which began to channel around the prince carried more power than he had ever felt in the past, like electricity in the air before a storm. A reflection of light against Harry’s glasses urged him to look down at the courtroom floor where a glowing circle of runes had created a perimeter around Nicholas’ feet. Harry’s heart was a hammer, banging against his chest. He watched the faces of those in the Wizengamot, viewing the event with mouths thrown wide – some of whom had done so because of amazement, while others had done so in horror. Minister Fudge himself was quaking in his seat, keeping his eyes locked onto Prince Nicholas who had now spread his arms outward as the runes only grew brighter, the radiance beginning to envelop him in its vividness. It was nothing like the glow that had shown up when Hermione and Nicholas had shaken hands; it was much harsher, releasing a heat which reminded Harry of the heavy heatwave that had tortured him while he did chores for the Dursleys last summer. There was no indication of pain on the prince, at least none that Harry could see in his movements (or lack thereof) and the absence of any sound except the wind hissing past his ears.

Harry brought his hand up to his eyes to block out the light, tilting his head to the left and seeing Dumbledore doing the same thing; the strong gusts causing the Headmaster’s silver hair and beard as well as his vividly purple robes to billow backwards, looking like a hilarious parody of some superhero from one of Dudley’s many storybooks.

Just when Harry was getting used to the steady light being released from the runes beneath Nicholas, they had risen in intensity once again, a wildfire only growing and growing and growing until it released a strong shockwave that knocked Harry into his seat. _Thump!_ The back of Harry’s head hit the wooden chair and black spots invaded his vision as he felt the impact of the force spread to his forehead, as if his brain had been thrown against the front of his skull, while the chains below the armrests rattled raucously. Through blurry vision, Harry could see the Wizengamot had also been thrown back into their seat in varying states of disorder.

After the shockwave, the light that torched the runes had started to fade, yet the runes themselves seemed to have burned into the courtroom floor, leaving charcoaled markings on the marble, smoking slightly. Harry wondered how Prince Nicholas could bear the heat enough to stand on them so casually – boots or not. To Harry’s right, Lord Commander Desmond gripped the edge of Harry’s seat and used it as leverage to lift himself back to his feet, having been knocked unceremoniously to the floor because of the shockwave. Harry chanced a look back at Dumbledore who was also righting himself, all the while staring unblinkingly at Nicholas. Following suit, Harry surveyed the prince, too. There was not much difference in him; he was still as tall as he had been earlier, still as thin, and he still wore the same formal black dress robes . . . but the small glint on Nicholas’ left hand caught Harry’s attention. He scrutinised it, narrowing his eyes to focus on it a little more, and he could see Nicholas now wore a golden signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand that had definitely not been there before.

Every spectator of the event, much too shocked to speak, remained silent. Gradually, every one of those in the black or burgundy robes looked to their leader – the Minister for Magic – for guidance. _How should we react_? they silently asked. _What do we do?_ Unfortunately, Fudge did not appear to be ready to lead just yet. He still stared at Nicholas, pale-faced, fearful, and Harry was almost worried the expression would permanently stick onto his face. But after a few beats, Fudge finally swallowed and spoke.

“You are . . . the heir to – to the throne?” he stumbled over the question clumsily, without any tact.

“It appears I am,” Nicholas said calmly. He brought his left hand to eye-level and flexed it, feeling his new ring with his right hand in casual interest.

“You –” Fudge abruptly shook his head. “No, you are not!” he yelled. “The royal line has been dead for centuries, boy.”

“Really?” the prince drawled. “I had wondered why the runes had been so intense when they accepted me, but now that you have reminded me of the centuries that have passed without royals, it makes sense.”

“This is Dumbledore’s trickery.” Fudge threw an accusing look at the Headmaster. “I know what you’re doing, Dumbledore. Thought you could get one of your pets from Hogwarts to come and perform this show, did you? Well, I don’t believe it, not one bit.”

“I am not involved, Cornelius,” Dumbledore said pleadingly. “The level of magic we just witnessed is beyond any creature that is alive or dead. It cannot be hoaxed. The Sovereign Nexus has been restored, I know you can feel it.”

“Minister,” Desmond joined in, “look at those runes.” He indicated the markings beneath Nicholas’ feet. “Anyone who has studied History of Magic would be able to identify them as the symbols of the Nexus. They identify Prince Nicholas as the Heir of Avalon. This is no ruse.”

For all their begging for him to see reason, Desmond and Dumbledore did not get through to Fudge. The Minister was growing purple and his unsteady voice matched his trembling. “N-No! I _will not_ allow this. The Wizengamot and Minister hold, between them, the full power in Magical Britain. We no longer have need for a Monarch. We no longer have need for the Sovereign Nexus!”

“Hear yourself, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore. “You are being foolish –”

Fudge hysterically reacted, “Foolish, am I –”

“ _Yes_ ,” he insisted. “ _Any_ magical government formed within the British Isles simply can’t modernise past the need for a complete Nexus – past the need for a _Monarch_ –”

“I refuse to bow to a pathetic schoolboy, Dumbledore!” Fudge faced Nicholas, sneering down at him and patronisingly declaring: “You will not have any authority over me, boy.”

The temperature in the room dropped. Nicholas straightened his back and coolly crossed his hands behind him. He casted a hard, steely gaze at Fudge, the silver of his eyes sharp enough to make the grown man flinch. “Need I remind you, Minister, this government was only created because the very first Wizengamot was able to gain access to my ancestor’s riches. You all live on the greed of your predecessors who refused to wait for the sanctioned fifteen years where the accounts had to be frozen to pass before stealing that money, breaching their own laws to reap the benefits of illegal power and wealth . . .” Nicholas glanced around in revulsion. “Luckily for me, Gringotts Representatives have reliably informed that I am in the perfect position to persecute the violations you all have made against my lineage. Of course, if I choose to do so, I will be single-handedly bankrupting nearly every member of the Wizengamot and the rest of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Wizarding Britain’s economy will halt and you will be thrown into an economic depression unlike anything seen since the Witch Hunts.”

     The prince took a few steps forward, his movements were slow, like a lion stalking its prey, and they were successful in inciting fear in Fudge. Just when he was standing under the Minister for Magic’s raised platform, Nicholas lifted his head up to stare the man down. “Let me make this clear, Minister Fudge: You will either willingly make your Oath of Allegiance and declare me your Crown Prince to the wizarding public or . . .  well, you can stand idly by and watch as I cripple your government until you _surrender_ me my birthright.”

Dumbledore stepped forward, putting a hand to Nicholas’ shoulder and attempting to diffuse the situation, “Your Highness, I don’t think that will be necessa–”

Nicholas threw the Professor a sharp glare which made him retreat his hand. “I have spent my whole life hearing people _mock_ this country, so do not tell me this will not be necessary.” He glowered at everyone in the courtroom, bar Harry and Desmond. “Do you know what I grew up hearing? That you have all taken turns in finding every possible opportunity to better your own positions or make yourselves feel more superior; whether that is compared to other magical creatures, others born of different blood status to you, or even those who _had_ been born with the same blood status, but had been deemed traitors – blood traitors – because they made friendships with those of different blood. It made me _ashamed_ to be a wizard.”

Many of the Wizengamot – especially those, Harry noticed, who wore the burgundy robes – flinched as though Nicholas had found each of them with their arms elbow-deep in cookie jars.

“You say I am a schoolboy,” Nicholas told Fudge, “and yet I am not the one bringing this country to ruin. I have watched you insist that Voldemort has not returned, against all better judgement that should have made you instead insist for a full investigation to be made into the claims. The way I see it, I – a mere schoolboy – have, in my little finger, far more sense and strength to lead this country than you do in your entire body. Which is why it is my intention to achieve that leadership by whatever means possible. Truthfully, I do not really have any care as to how I will do it. Should I dissolve this current government using financial means as well as my rights as sovereign, then fashion another government more in my taste? Or shall I let you keep your current position? I should tell you, the only way I will allow the latter is if you bend the knee to me, so we may work together to restore Magical Britain to a country that will no longer be the subject of laughter within the International Confederation.” He pulled out a golden pocket watch from his trouser pocket and glimpsed at it for a second. “I will give you two minutes to decide whether you want Magical Britain to be a kingdom ruled by a just king and his government, or a dominion governed by a dictator who would still rule as the King of Avalon. Merlin knows you need to make the right choice today, Minister.”

The tension in the chamber was a ship on the verge of tipping. Members of the Wizengamot shuffled and feverishly turned to the Minister, quietly indicating what they thought he should do, telling him he needed to listen to the prince. It was quite clear that nobody was willing to risk Prince Nicholas carrying through with his threat . . . not even Dumbledore who rushed to Fudge and frantically whispered up at him.

Nicholas whirled on the spot and walked towards Harry. Faced away from the sights of the Wizengamot, the prince’s lips lifted, widening more and more until he was grinning his amusement at both Harry and Desmond. Nicholas sauntered over to the chair Harry was on and chose to seat himself down on the armrest nearest to Desmond, intertwining his fingers on top of his lap as he mockingly waited for the obvious, inevitable verdict.

“You don’t do things in halves, do you?” Desmond whispered.

“What is the point?” Nicholas retorted. “Might as well throw the quaffle in the air to start the game now than wait a few days to do it.”

The Lord Commander chuckled lowly. “Maybe you’re right, but maybe a whistle should have been blown as some kind of warning before the quaffle was thrown. The Minister for Magic looks like he is about ready to faint.”

“A Minister who needs warning before a new development occurs has no place leading a country.” Nicholas tilted his head thoughtfully. “What do you both think of Madam Bones?”

“She has a steady head,” Desmond instantly answered, “and quite a lot of authority, too. Fudge is obviously threatened by her, but not as threatened as he feels by Dumbledore.”

“I don’t know much about politics,” Harry admitted, trying to be somewhat useful for the prince, “but I know she called for Malfoy’s arrest and that could be damaging for her career considering . . .” From how Draco Malfoy, his school rival, kept boasting about his father’s position, Harry figured he was on the right track.

“Considering Malfoy is rumoured to be quite influential here,” Nicholas finished. “She is willing to do what needs to be done for justice. At the very least, that means she has some idea of honour.”

“What are you thinking, Your Highness?” asked Desmond.

The prince smirked. “Minister Bones has a rather nice ring to it, I think.”

“And here I thought you would keep Fudge,” Desmond said amusedly. “He would be an easy person to influence, wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe, if there was no war to be fought,” Nicholas acknowledged. “But there _is_ a war to be had, Edwin. I cannot have weakness in any part of my government, else I might as well just hand it over to the Dark Lord.”

Any response to that was halted by the Minister’s movements; he had nodded to Dumbledore, eyebrows knitted and lips quivering in distress, and scooted away from his seat, shuffling along the platform as though he was walking the plank, before stepping down the steps leading to the courtroom floor. Harry nearly felt sorry for Fudge, but as the pudgy man traipsed unsteadily towards the prince, Harry remembered why he was here in the first place and the sympathy ebbed away to nothing.

Once Fudge reached Nicholas he sunk to one knee before the prince, pulling his wand out and clutching it against his chest. “I, Cornelius O-Oswald Fudge . . .” he began his proclamation, voice utterly crushed, “do swear my allegiance to the S-Sovereign Lord, Prince . . . Prince . . .” Fudge was lost, apparently not being able to remember Nicholas’ name, and he looked back to Dumbledore for help.

“Prince Nicholas,” Dumbledore provided.

“I do s-swear my allegiance to the Sovereign Lord, Prince Nicholas –”

“And my heirs and successors,” Nicholas added.

Fudge whimpered. “And his heirs and successors. I do swear to serve them in the Ministry of Magic and Wizengamot according to our laws and customs.” Harry had to strain to hear it, but after a moment of tearful hesitation, Fudge whispered: “By my magic, I swear it.”

An ethereal blue glow enveloped Minister Fudge for a moment, vanishing as soon as it appeared. Then, it enveloped Nicholas before it disappeared completely. Dumbledore pulled out his own wand and clutched it to his chest in the same way as Fudge, dropping to one knee, bowing his head down at Prince Nicholas. Harry gaped as the rest of the Wizengamot followed his lead, everyone getting on one knee, great clutters and rumbles becoming the music of their collective movements. The scene was astonishing.

When he heard some shuffles to the left of him, Harry curved his head round to finally notice that the Lord Commander was also bowing to Nicholas. Harry hurriedly fell from his chair and joined everybody in showing their respect. He may have been the last, but he was one of the minority who did so without a single thought of malevolence towards the prince.


End file.
